Blurred Lines
by Dreaming of Everything
Summary: Isolated and desperate, two teams, one Autobot and one Decepticon, were forced to merge. With a new threat headed to earth after them, how hard can a little trust be? It's important: the survival of humanity might depend on it. Gen, ensemble, G1 chars.
1. Confusion and Introductions

**Blurred Lines  
****Chapter 1: Confusion and Introductions  
**By Dreaming of Everything

**Disclaimer**:

**Author's Notes**: While I'm using almost entirely G1 characters, some changes have been made, especially to the Decepticons. **Keep in mind that this is movieverse, and **_**not**_** connected to any other canon. I'm merely doing what the movie did **(Kiiiind of. Okay, not really.)

Why the OCs, then? Well, there weren't any characters already in existence that suited my needs.

And I am shameless. That, too.

**Many, many thanks to my beta, mmouse15. **She is more wonderful than I have words for.

oOoOoOo

It was a clear, cloudless December night, and the desert was quiet. The air was dry and cold, the sandy earth colder and nearly lifeless. The Milky Way was spread out above everything, blue-gray swirls of light almost unnatural against the deep blue-black of the heavens. A star was falling, arcing across the sky.

The slight glitter of the shooting star turned into flames as it broke through the atmosphere, blazing across the sky as it fell lower and lower before crashing, resoundingly, into the earth. For square miles around it small creatures—mice, insects, lizards, snakes—ran, panicked, out of their lairs, burrows, nooks and crannies, disturbed by the vibrations of the landing.

Around the impact crater there was the utter, shocked silence left in the wake of violent noise, only magnified by the slight creaks and cracks of cooling glass where the fierce heat had melted the sand. Slowly, agonizingly, a figure unfolded itself out of the hole. He stepped carefully—too carefully—on the rim of the crater, pulled himself up and out of it, half-faltering.

Slowly, he limped off towards the highway, the wind whistling through his armor.

Eventually the small animals that had been jolted out of their homes began to creep back into the earth.

It was a cold night.

oOo

A quick, sudden flinch wove its way through all of the Autobots in unison. Sam and Mikaela were both suddenly on guard, a startling change in the two previously-laughing, no-longer-relaxed teens.

"What?" said Sam warily.

"Signal beacon," said Ratchet, sounding offhand. Sam guessed that he was preoccupied—as the medic, he had some of the most sensitive instruments in the crew. He was probably doing some kind of analysis or another.

"Autobot or Decepticon? Or blocked?" asked Mikaela after a minute. She'd started getting lessons on Cybertronian function and anatomy, along with Sam, although she'd taken to them far better than he had. She'd learned enough to know that each faction had its own unique signature attached to their general signals, but that it could be blocked—not that blocking it was particularly an advantage, usually, because it was considered highly suspicious behavior.

"Autobot," said Ratchet, the one closest to them, after another minute.

"Or a clever fake," said Jazz, frowning a little. "It's an old model—a _very_ old model. That's suspicious."

"No," said Ratchet firmly. "It's Autobot. You might not be able to tell a fake, but I'm more than equipped to notice any little tricks they might have used."

"Where is it coming from?" asked Optimus Prime. "A new signal—"

It would be momentous. It had been six months since they'd defeated Megatron and he'd sent out his message. It hadn't so much as been bounced back. He'd almost thought it a lost cause, that the five of them really were everyone who was left—they all had, more or less. It had been a long, hard war.

"The lookout," said Bumblebee instantly. His own scanning programs weren't bad—as a spy, he needed them.

"Who wants to go investigate?" said Optimus Prime. Technically, only one would be enough—a single signal, an Autobot signal, in a place they knew well. On the other hand, it was _somebody new_.

There was an instant clamor.

"Who's on duty?" he said—a rhetorical question, really. He was already pulling up the data. "Okay, Bumblebee, stay here. I want someone to watch the base, and Sam and Mikaela should both stay here, just in case. Autobots don't necessarily like non-Cybertronian life any more than Decepticons do—they just have to hate some other Decepticon value more. The rest of you—be careful. Ironhide, no shooting anyone until _after_ they have shot at you, and that includes threatening to shoot them. Even non-verbally. Actually, I think it would be better if you stayed here and ran a patrol of the perimeter of the grounds. You're still in trouble for what you tried back with the Witwickys. Jazz, don't mess around with anyone's mind." There was a short pause. Jazz had been reading up on human theories regarding psychology, and was taking to it a little too well. "…Too much. I know that even that's too much to hope for, really."

"You got it, boss-man," said Jazz cheerily. "Let's go!"

Bumblebee grumbled. Sam and Mikaela both looked unhappy, but they'd also looked doubtful when he'd first asked his question. Their experiences meeting new Autobots really hadn't been all that great, thought Optimus reflectively. It made sense that they would be a little hesitant—especially considering that they were so soft and _delicate_. He'd been researching human health a little, in his free time (not that he had much, although he did have more than he was used to. Peace time was taking some adjustment,) and it was incredible how many ways they could die. That they'd managed to live at all…

Actually, the whole planet was something of a miracle. The sheer variety of forms life had taken—it was fantastical.

oOo

"Sorry you got left behind," said Mikaela suddenly, more or less out of the blue.

"Huh?" said Sam, then "Oh. Yeah. I'm sorry, too."

Bumblebee shrugged. "This isn't _too_ bad, I guess…" he said, voice slightly wicked with humor. Mikaela rolled her eyes.

"If it's such a strain for you, we could always head back home for Christmas break and let you have some time off for yourself," said Sam, just as amused even as he called his bluff. "Spend some quality time with the rest of the team, some of the other humans. Tell Glen 'hi' for me."

The Autobot bumped a hip into the table, jolting it just hard enough to make the two standing humans stumble, then affected a casual whistle, looking as innocent as a sunny day in June.

"Hey!" said Mikaela, mock-affronted, after she'd regained her balance. Sam would have played along as well, but he was sprawled on the tabletop, laughing too hard to stand back up.

Eventually, the laugher died down.

"This is going to be the coolest Christmas break _ever,_" said Sam, smiling widely at his girlfriend and his best friend.

oOo

He'd stumbled across a small house and scanned the first vehicle of vaguely appropriate size. At least he had an alt form, now—although it had been a surprise that he even still had the function. His self-diagnosis programs weren't working correctly anymore; he'd sustained too much damage. All his scans had showed that his transformation should work fine, but he'd been doubtful, and it would have been much harder to get to the spot marked as the origin of the message they'd intercepted without a way to blend in at least a little more than he otherwise would. He would need to be careful anyways—he didn't have a holographic system, not anymore.

Transformation had been painful. Quickly-patched repairs were not meant to deal with that sort of strain. He was ignoring the nagging worry that the switch into the car-shape had reopened the long cut along the back of his leg—his repair systems showed nothing, but he didn't expect them to. There wasn't any pain, but he was pretty sure that the main wires responsible for sense had been cut as well. Driving, thankfully, had been easier than transformation.

And now he was at the empty lookout the message had had imprinted as its location of origin. There were no Autobots or Decepticons there, no Transformers at all, unless they were shielding themselves. He'd sent out a message in return, hoping it would bring someone—_anyone_—and now he was waiting. He'd fallen into a half-doze, unable to stay fully alert any longer.

It was fully dark again when the sound of engines jolted him awake. He smothered the urge to leave, to find someplace a little more secure to hide, and swept his nervousness aside, starting another diagnostic again—his sensors should have alerted him, and they were moving too loudly—not even trying to cover the sound of their engines and tires—for them to bother shielding at all, let alone with the kind of strength it would take to disguise them so totally at such close range.

His own engine rumbled to life, but he knew that he was in trouble if he needed to escape. He was seriously injured, and not a racer at the best of times—it just wasn't one of his strengths. And then there were a host of other problems: from the noises he could hear, he was badly outnumbered, and on unknown terrain, and still running on far less recharge time than what he needed to be fully functional.

The first vehicle to pull up skidded to a stop and slid into a quick, competent, seamless reform before he'd even fully stopped moving. Another two vehicles—a small gray sports car and a bright fluorescent green Hummer equipped as an ambulance pulled up behind him and followed suit. Slowly, he initiated his own transformation: it would be highly rude, and possibly suspicious, not to mention outside military protocol, to not follow their lead, despite how it was probably going to rip open other barely-scabbed-over wounds.

The boxy green one made an annoyed sort of sound.

"Sir," he said, saluting the tall one who'd led the trio, assuming that he was the leader.

"At ease," he replied immediately, with an easy confidence that confirmed his guess even before he finished speaking. "I am Optimus Prime."

He saluted again, automatically—he had known a Prime was on earth, of course, because the name had been attached to the message, but he hadn't expected that he would respond to him personally like this.

"You seem like you've had a hard time," continued the other Autobot diplomatically. "Are you injured?"

The boxy green one took this as an opening. "Yes, he is," he said firmly. "I don't know who you are, but what in the name of Primus were you _doing_, traveling like this? You utter idiot—!"

"Ratchet," cut in Optimus Prime with a sigh.

"Right," said the small gray one. His voice was oddly familiar, even in the stunted ranges of English. "Like you've probably gathered, this is Ratchet, and I'm—"

Something clicked into place. "_Jazz?_" he said, using the Cybertronian version of the name, voice suddenly filled with clear surprise.

"Yeah, that's me—wait, Prowl?"

"Yes," he said.

"_Damn_. It's been a long time—I'd assumed you'd gotten killed by some 'Con or another. How ya doing?" He stepped forward to bump affectionately into the other mech, who stumbled, just slightly, at even that faint nudge. "You've been really fucked over, huh?"

"Yes," said Prowl, managing a faint (if slightly sour) smile. "You haven't changed."

Jazz smirked. "Neither have you."

"You'd be surprised," said Prowl cryptically.

"Let Ratch' look over you, though—he's the best medic I've ever known—and you need it. Bad."

Ratchet growled. Prowl obediently made his way over to the medic, who already had one hand reformed into a delicate-looking medical tool, waiting.

"Down," said Ratchet forcefully. "I need to get that leg fixed before we go back to the base, where I can actually start repairing you. But you can't travel like that—it's a miracle you managed to move at _all_, let alone transform. What are your repair systems _doing_?"

"Oh," said Prowl, feeling distinctly disconnected from reality. A slightly more conscious logic function noted that it was probably a combination of fuel loss and exhaustion shutting down mental processes. "So it did end up splitting open again…" Sure enough, there was a growing puddle of internal fluids slowly soaking into the ground where he'd been at rest.

"_Down!_" bellowed Ratchet. Prowl obeyed.

oOo

The formidable medic—Ratchet—had forced him straight into the medbay; he'd caught only slight glimpses of the base as he passed through. It was nice—very new, enough so that the floors were unscuffed, the ceiling hadn't collected any dust and the walls were empty of the slight dents and scrapes that inevitably ended up on them over time. Jazz had informed him that it had been inaugurated just a week before. He'd also caught a brief glimpse of Ironhide—"Don't take it seriously if he threatens to shoot you," had been Jazz's advice; "He'd damn well better not shoot my patients," had been Ratchet's—and a slightly better one of the (much) friendlier Bumblebee, along with the two organics that were currently inhabiting the base, albeit only temporarily.

He'd wanted to give the Autobots—Optimus Prime, really—his message, but the medic had put him in a forced recharge. Prowl had just woken up, to find the medbay deserted. He didn't know the private comm. lines, let alone know if he would be imposing if he tried to use them—there were different rules and customs in different units—and he certainly didn't want to send off another general transmission.

Prowl just lay where he was for a while, waiting. He was relieved when the sound of footprints approached, although he couldn't see them from where he was. Eventually the source of them stepped into the room, the door swishing open and closed around the form.

"Ratchet," he said by way of perfunctory greeting. "I need to talk to Optimus Prime."

"Okay," said the medic, agreeable enough to surprise Prowl. His personality seemed to have changed dramatically. After another brief second, he added "He's on his way."

"Thank you," said Prowl stiffly, a beat after he should have said it. An awkward silence grew.

It didn't last long before the door swung open again, although it wasn't Optimus Prime. "Hey!" said Jazz. "How ya doing?"

"Better," said Prowl. His diagnostics seemed to be working again, for one, a huge relief, and he no longer hurt everywhere he wasn't numb—no numb patches at all, in fact, and only a dull ache along his leg and in a few other scattered places where he'd been more badly injured.

"He's far from well," said Ratchet, voice dangerous again. "I've got most of his basic systems and subprograms running again, but not everything, and it's just going to take time for most of the delicate wiring to repair itself. There's still a few major flaws in the armor proper—nasty sort of blade those slashes were caused by, never seen anything like it—that will also take some time. Transformation should be a strain for a few more days, but it shouldn't cause you any problems like it was. That stunt you pulled was stupid as anything I've seen from a hot-blooded rookie on his first time in the field, for the record."

Ratchet paused slightly as Optimus entered the room, before continuing. "And you need a new alt form—your current one is slightly too small, and it'll cause problems in both the long and short term. There was a flaw in that program as well—that's what got you something too small in the first place—but it's been corrected now. Really, it's a miracle you're alive."

Jazz whistled. "Damn, you really _were _fucked up. I—"

Before he could continue, he was interrupted by Ironhide speaking through the base intercom system, the noise broadcast into the room.

"Optimus, we've got possible 'Con activity on a military base nearby," he said. Prowl winced, just slightly, although only Jazz noticed the slight movement.

"Play what we received," said Optimus, frowning.

"_Whoah! For a minute there, there were two jets in hangar 7!"_

"_You're crazy, man, or you need sleep. Charlie, don't put that in the report. Lewis, get yourself a replacement and then some rest, and you're lucky I'm not sending you to the shrink. God, what I would give to have a fully competent team just _once…_"_

"It does sound a lot like someone just found himself a nice new alt form," said Ratchet with a frown.

"And there's been no transmission," said Jazz. "I don't like it. If they're Autobots, what've they got to hide?"

"We shouldn't be hasty," said Optimus. "But we can't risk any human lives. Ironhide, com Bumblebee and have him return to take your place—he's out with Sam and Mikaela, right? Then you're with me, along with Jazz. There were several meteor strikes mentioned in the area recently, so whoever this is might not be alone. Ratchet, I want you along in case of injury, but stay out of the fighting—your role here is too essential to risk. All of you—and this goes for you especially, Ironhide—don't make the first aggressive move. Defend yourself if you're attacked, but don't go after anyone. Autobots, move out. I'm sorry, Prowl, I'll have to talk to you later."

He was gone before Prowl could collect his still-scattered thoughts to reply.

oOo

"I wonder what's happened," said Sam. "I mean, there's that one new guy—Prowl?—and then another possible sighting, possibly with more…"

"Yeah," said Mikaela. Bumblebee chirped his agreement.

"Not talking again?" said Sam, quirking his head to look up at his friend.

"Not much," he replied, his voice scratchy. "Still hurts. And Ratchet'll throw another hissy fit if I damage anything again."

"Makes you wonder, though," said Mikaela with a frown. She sat for a minute, thinking, before she shook it off. "At least we'd already bought groceries when they called," she said, smiling slightly.

"Yeah," said Sam. He paused for a second before continuing, sourly, "But was blasting that song across the parking lot to get me out of the store really necessary? When I bought you—no, I know I don't really own you, shut up—you looked old enough that anybody would believe you had a broken radio, but now? They just give me _looks_. Especially when the song is 'Bitchin' Camaro.'" (1)

oOo

It was a dark night. Ordinarily, there would have been stars and a moon hanging above the desert, but clouds had blocked them over, and it was too far from any city for much spillover light pollution. The air was heavy with anticipation of the coming storm, charged with tension. The only noises were the low growls of thunder rumbling off in the distance and the muted murmur of voices.

"I don't see why we don't just leave him," a voice grumbled.

"I waited for _you_," a second voice pointed out, reasonably. "And you took half an eternity."

There was a long pause, silent at first but slowly filled with the noise of the rain sweeping down the desert. It bounced loudly off of metal as it reached the group.

"I hate this planet already," the first voice said.

"I don't mind it too—" the second speaker's voice cut off as another rumble of thunder faded out, revealing the growing sound of an engine overhead.

"Finally," the first voice, still disgruntled, said.

"Like I said, I waited for _you_, and you were hardly any better. You don't even have an excuse."

"Yeah," said a new voice, although the words weren't in English, weren't in any human language. "Damned tiny organics didn't have anything big enough for an alt form. _You've_ got no excuse. I think I downloaded the wrong language."

There was a brief pause. "Nice non-sequitor," said the second voice admiringly.

"Well, _say_ something," said the first voice, still annoyed. The third one did, switching out of the unearthly language all three had been using since the latest arrival.

"Nope, that's not it—try again!"

"That's not helpful—and it doesn't make sense. More countries have this one listed as an official language than any other…"

"Think of it as the current diplomatic language."

"Stupid, having so many of them, anyways. Confusing…"

There was another break in the conversation.

"…I _hate_ the rain," said the first speaker's voice again.

oOo

Ratchet kicked moodily at the desert floor. It wasn't even sand—it was _powder_. The sort of thing that caused seven flavors of hell when it got into Autobot systems, which it inevitably did when there was a fight—all those cut fuel lines and coolant tubes, and dirt getting kicked around and people falling over into it.

And it was pouring rain. This was a desert—it wasn't _supposed_ to rain, let alone like this. It made the human myth (2) about Noah and his ark make a lot more sense.

At least it would help damp down the dust. It did make things a lot more miserable, though—there were few things worse than water running down the back of an armor plate. It was better in an alt form—fewer holes, and designed with the weather in mind—but the terrain was far too rough for that to be feasible—not to mention not as safe, if an enemy combatant did show up.

So Ratchet was unhappy. He was even less happy when he came across the Decepticon, insignia clearly displayed for the world to see.

He had his guns out—he was a fast transformer, if nothing else—and aimed almost as quickly as the other one did, which was pretty good, for him; he wasn't designed or programmed for battle, although he'd learned to do his best.

The two eyed each other warily.

"There's been some kind of mistake—" the other began.

"Shut up," ground out Ratchet. The Decepticon looked surprised, then glared back. There was a Decepticon skulking around, Ratchet was an Autobot, what sort of 'mistake' could there be?

After a few more tense seconds the silvery form of Jazz materialized behind the stranger out of the rain, the raindrops falling on him hard enough to throw up a fine mist. His guns—considerably more impressive than Ratchet's own—were both pointed firmly at the Decepticon's back. The stranger cast a resigned look behind him.

"No, really—" he began again.

"Are there any more of you here?" interrupted Jazz coolly, voice steely.

"Yes," said another voice out of the darkness. There was the slight _click!_ of guns prepping. "Don't move."

Ratchet tried to send off a message, but something was blocking the transmission. Almost definitely one of the 'Cons. He could only hope that one of the others realized that they were incommunicado and came to investigate the dead area that would show up on their scans.

They were in luck. "Want to find out if you can shoot faster than I can, punk?" said Ironhide's voice, somewhere between smug and elated at there finally—_finally_—being a fight.

There was another long, slow, belligerent pause, filled only with the drumming of rain against metal, turning the already loud noise of the storm into a dull roar. Thunder boomed, somewhere off in the distance.

"Hello, there," came another voice, this one clearly smirking, out of the darkness, over towards Ironhide. The slight glow of the newcomer's optics was far, far higher than anyone else's. Ratchet bit back a curse. Jazz didn't bother censoring himself.

Again, nobody moved. After another long minute Ratchet realized he could hear the familiar noise of Optimus' engine approaching, even over the pounding rain. He covered a smirk of his own.

The Decepticons could clearly hear it as well, growing visibly more agitated. "Slag this," muttered the tall one. Ratchet guessed that Optimus was still a few seconds away, at least.

And then it was too late—the tall one was moving, stepping forward to bodily pick up the smaller mech Ratchet and Jazz were threatening. As he moved his leg slammed into Ratchet's side, forcing Jazz to jump out of the way as his teammate came crashing towards him—although, the medic thought muzzily as he hit the ground hard, considering the sheer size of the 'Con, it could almost be considered a light tap, even considering how much it hurt. A little ways away there were the sounds of a fight—no guns, but metal against metal.

Jazz helped him up. "Ironhide!" he called out into the darkness, echoing the message in text on a private comlink as he realized that he could again.

There was a wordless growl and Ironhide limped forward to join the other three as Optimus pulled up out of the darkness and transformed. "What happened?" he asked.

"Three of them, all of us with guns locked on each other with the final link in their favor until you arrived. No shots from either side—they were being remarkably non-aggressive. Making me edgy, matter of fact. As you got closer the big one—and _damn_ but he is big—grabbed the one me and Ratchet had our sights on and ran," said Jazz quickly.

"The third jumped me," said Ironhide grumpily. "Got a nasty cut in on my leg, and then ran before I had the chance to return the favor." Return it with interest, if Ratchet knew Ironhide. Which he did.

"There's something odd about this whole situation," said Optimus with a frown. "I don't like it either."

They all paused, then, as another signal drew nearer—an Autobot one, this time. Eventually the noise of a raspy, unhealthy engine drew close enough to hear, and then the car it was coming from. Prowl pulled up and shifted into his bipedal mode.

"You need to listen," he said, voice heavy with urgency. "There's something I _need_ to explain."

oOo

(1) An actual song, by the Dead Milkmen. I blame the tf2007fun community over on LJ.

(2) Ratchet's an alien, like all the Autobots, and definitely not Christian because of that. (Barring the possibility of conversion, and that's just not something I'm going to touch with a ten-foot pole.) From his viewpoint, all Earth's belief systems and mythologies and cultural stories and etcetera look more or less the same. He's not going to differentiate between biblical parables and, say, Greek myths.

--End Chapter 1--


	2. A Difficult Explanation

**Blurred Lines**  
**Chapter 2: A Difficult Explanation**  
By Dreaming of Everything

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Transformers in any way, shape or form—and there's a lot of versions to pick from. I merely play for my own amusement and, hopefully, yours.

**Author's Notes**: Chapter two. Things Are Revealed. In other news, Dwimordene is apparently psychic, on top of her healthy dose of awesome.

All my reviewers are fantastic, in fact. I love y'all, seriously.

Eternal gratitude to my beta, **mmouse15**!

oOoOoOo

"You need to listen," Prowl said, voice heavy with urgency. "There's something I need to explain."

There was a long, heavy pause. The downpour slowed, finally trickled to a stop, ending almost as quickly as it had started.

"We're waiting," said Jazz helpfully. Optimus shot him a _look_.

"It better be a damn important thing, for you to have dragged your half-dead carcass out here," muttered Ratchet, but he was just going through the motions, more or less—Optimus was right. Something was wrong with this whole situation.

"Does it relate to the Decepticons we just faced off with?" said Optimus. "It was an odd situation. They were being unexpectedly non-aggressive, and that's just to start with..."

Prowl actually winced. "Sir," he said, recovering—or covering up—quickly and saluting sharply. "Please, hear me through."

Jazz whistled. "This one's gonna be good."

Prowl paused again, made as if to speak, paused. "They weren't going to attack," he said at last. "They won't."

There was a sudden flurry of movement. Within seconds, faster than Prowl could react, as damaged as he was, he was pinned to the ground, one of Ironhide's cannons firmly over his spark chamber. The other Autobots arranged themselves in a loose, outwards-facing circle, defensive: they were at a disadvantage and they knew it. With someone who almost _had_ to be a traitor among them— Scanning programs flared into a still-more-urgent search, power flooding them, all senses strained to their extremes.

Optimus turned away from scanning the still-empty horizon to face Prowl once more, trusting the others to remain on-guard. His posture and expression were, surprisingly, more weary and disappointed than angry.

"Turned traitor, Prowl?" Jazz asked, still looking away, voice grim but his tone saying that he was hoping against hope, and Prowl had to fight to control his instinctive flinch.

"No," he said, voice slightly scratchy. Again, more clearly, he said "No."

"Hah!" said Ironhide bitterly. "You expect us to _believe_ you?"

"I'm not here as—as the Autobot I am, or as the Decepticon I'm not, and _never_ will be. I have a _warning_. We all do."

"And what sort of warning has Autobots working with Decepticons?" Optimus asked.

"Permission to send a data file, sir?" asked Prowl, the question something of an answer.

"No," said Ratchet immediately.

"Permission denied," said Optimus, just a few seconds after the medic. "Your credibility and your loyalties are still—questionable." The risk of him transmitting a virus along with whatever data he sent was too high.

"Yes, sir. Then. It was…

"It is a—long story.

"Despite my youth at the time, I was placed in charge of a standard field team and dispatched, along with one other unit, to follow a Decepticon ship that had been located, passing through our sector for an unknown purpose. Our briefing stated that it was likely that it was an explorative team. This assumption would later prove to be correct.

"Initial time estimates for the duration of the trip fell between four and seven of this planet's solar rotations. It was later extended and given no definite ending point. We were dispatched during the early stages of the war; it was before troop numbers were a major concern, and before the loss of the Allspark. I was assigned because I showed promise, and field work would test me, but I was also unimportant and inessential."

"It's all true so far," cut in Jazz. "Matches what I know. Course, 'what I know' isn't gonna help much with the rest of the story…"

"Once we passed outside current secure communications ranges, our actions were left to our own indiscretion," continued Prowl, as if he hadn't heard the interruption. That, at least, seemed to imply a long familiarity with Jazz. "We continued to follow the Decepticons. A pattern emerged: a brief stop at planets with an atmosphere thick enough to prevent thorough scanning before they moved on. The longest of these stays was two weeks, converted into local time."

Ratchet exchanged a look with Jazz, although his expression was slightly surprised, compared to Jazz's familiar exasperation. The mech sounded like he was reading a mission report, cool, professional and impersonal, despite the situation they were all in.

"Two days after our arrival on a large moon populated with the first sentient species we had encountered we were caught in the middle of a war. Another unknown, alien and sentient species had found the planet. They invaded. It was more a massacre than an actual fight. The invaders' physical shape and fighting styles proved to be especially effective against Cybertronian methods and design. The native species was utterly helpless.

"The other Autobot unit was lost. My own team was able to flee into the cave system that riddled the moon, with minimal losses. A certain number of Decepticons escaped as well. Eventually, as we were forced further and further back, we ended up in closer and closer proximity. Fighting was inadvisable. It would only attract the attention of our pursuers."

Prowl's voice changed, suddenly becoming almost uncertain, altering from its previous dry and factual tones. "At this point, things become... Difficult. The facts of the matter are that edgy coexistence turned to necessary cooperation turned to…" Prowl paused. Turned to what?

"—and necessary cooperation turned to almost friendly cooperation. And kept on changing. It's hard to explain. The situation—it wasn't just that we were forced to work together to survive, although there was that. There was a mutual hatred of the aliens: the acts they committed were… atrocious."

"_Decepticons_ horrified by something like xenocide? Of another species?" muttered Ironhide darkly.

"It's not that simple," said Prowl. "Colony 75-68, for example." Optimus winced slightly. He remembered. He'd just taken charge when the situation had been uncovered: it _hadn't_ been an uninhabited planet when the Autobots who'd colonized it had landed, as their initial report had read—and all the reports after it. They'd taken pains to make sure that nobody realized what was going on until it was too late. Hidden genocide, far out in the deepest reaches of space, committed by Autobots.

"And it wasn't… They didn't just kill them. They farmed them. The species has developed a system that gathers the energy from living beings that fit a certain set of criteria; we were only left alone, after a while, because Cybertronians don't match. But the species that was native to the planet…

"The invaders harness the metabolic process, but it cripples and then kills the body, slowly and painfully. Especially when they don't bother to try and keep them alive. Half the reason the aliens have their insane devotion to their leaders is because it used to be _them_ who were farmed."

Ratchet shifted. Prowl continued, after a minute without any other reactions or interruptions. "Decepticons were directly responsible for saving the lives of at least one of my subordinates on seven different occasions. Those are only the ones I witnessed first-hand, or had reported to me." There was a self-deprecating pause. "I don't know how often my unit saved Decepticon lives. They didn't report those incidents." The Autobots were silent. They knew what a life-debt could mean. Optimus Prime owed his life to a human boy the barest fraction of his own age. It made a difference. "We were in the caves for a long time. There were a number of casualties, past the first losses: either because of bad luck, ineptitude or an inability to cooperate. Two Decepticons were caught with energy the aliens had siphoned out of living beings: their teammates shut them out of our central caves. They're dead by now, or still roaming through them." Prowl stopped.

"And then what happened?" asked Jazz.

"Eventually, the invaders moved on, when the planet and its population were finished off. We left the cave system, refueled and repaired our ships, and then waited for a while. We were all hesitant to rejoin our respective sides in the war and start fighting again, possibly against each other. At that point, we were unaware of the fact that the war was over.

"Then we received your message, sir. But we knew that the aliens would have picked it up as well. We headed towards the coordinates you specified."

"And the warning you have?" said Optimus, knowing that he already knew what it was.

"The aliens. They're coming here."

There was a heavy, pregnant pause.

"Damn but you know how to fuck up someone's day," said Jazz. "I mean, _shit_. Even if none of that was true, I ain't sleeping easy tonight."

"I can find out how true it is," said Ratchet, a serious edge to his normally easy-going voice. "Optimus?"

"Are you willing to submit to a full scan, Prowl?" asked Optimus.

"Yes, sir," said Prowl immediately, without hesitating. That was unusual—it was a huge breach of privacy, of personal boundaries. To have every scrap of data you had potentially opened up and shared with a medic—even someone innocent was likely to refuse. It went beyond intimacy. "The leader of the Decepticon team, one of the Cybertronians you just encountered, would be willing to go through it as well."

Optimus and Jazz exchanged glances. Even just asking an Autobot to submit to a full mental scan was pretty serious in and of itself; having that Autobot willingly agree to it was major, especially with no apparent hesitation. Having a _Decepticon_ go through the procedure, without complaint and of his own accord, was—beyond unheard of.

"You're sure about that," said Jazz at last.

"Yes. We weren't the only ones who intercepted your transmission. Unless the aliens find some other planet to pillage first, on their way here, they will be coming to earth."

"Let him up, Ironhide," said Ratchet. "I need space to work on this."

"That's a bad idea," Ironhide said immediately. "I don't like this at all, Optimus. I say we shoot the traitor and leave him here."

"If what he says is true, and Ratchet's going to be able to tell us that in a minute, we can't afford to ignore this warning," said Optimus Prime. "No matter that he's cooperated with Decepticons."

"_You_ will need to do the same," said Prowl flatly. "Cooperate with them. These aliens—they're built to destroy, and they're innumerable. Our cannons are ineffective against their physiology. All of us, even the Decepticons, are determined to fight against this threat, this time, even if it means we die, and a united front is the only chance any of us have."

Ironhide growled, deep in his throat, and stalked forward to take the place Ratchet had vacated.

"And the Decepticon cause?" asked Prowl. "Where does that fit into this?"

"What cause?" said Prowl. "The Allspark's destroyed, Megatron's dead, Starscream and whoever else is out there trying to reorganize the Decepticons are crazy, incompetent or both and the Autobots are gathering their forces back together into a united whole: the fractured, splintered, groups of Decepticons that form won't stand a chance."

"We're not going to hunt down Decepticons," said Optimus, sounding just slightly unnerved. "I'm not reforming an army. We will defend ourselves if attacked, and we will defend humanity, but I'm not going to out on—some sort of murderous rampage—"

"You would believe the Decepticons, if the situation was reversed and they were the victorious ones calling back their comrades?"

"I'm ready to begin," Ratchet said, before Optimus could begin, but Prowl's point had been made.

The medic was kneeling on the ground, Prowl sitting next to him. He'd opened a few armor plates along the mech's back, revealing part of the complicated tangles of wires and circuits that made up a Transformer's body. Carefully, he switched one of his fingers to a data port and attached himself to the other Autobot.

The effect was immediate, both going stiff and their eyes going dark at the sudden rush of data transferring. Optimus watched the two carefully, for signs of anything going wrong.

It was deathly quiet in the desert. The air was still; there was the sound of a small stream of runoff from the just-finished storm off to one side. Overhead, the clouds were still blocking the night sky.

After a long, tense minute Ratchet jerkily drew back his hand, breaking the connection. Slowly, his eyes brightened and he climbed back to his feet. He stood for a few seconds, still having trouble managing the huge influx of data.

"He's telling the truth," he said at last. "He's telling the truth, or he doesn't know he's telling a lie, and the facts sit true enough that that's unlikely."

Optimus shifted slightly on his feet. "It's a—difficult situation," he said at last.

"Something like that," said Jazz, voice forcedly light. Everyone knew him well enough to not to take his flippancy at face value.

"I want to see some damn _facts_," said Ironhide, voice tense. "All of this—and what proof have we got? Some old friend of Jazz's say-so, and slightly odd behavior from a trio of Decepticons."

"If you will allow it, I'll signal them to return," said Prowl. "And the Decepticon team leader, Sidetrack, is willing to go through with a total scan. I doubted you would accept anything less, and we have discussed it."

Optimus looked quickly around at his team. Silently, through private text lines, he sent out a message: '_Do we risk it?'_

'_Yes,'_ sent Jazz immediately._ 'I still trust Prowl, and Ratchet says he's telling the truth, and we outnumber the Decepticons. We have the advantage, even if it _is_ a trap—and I don't think it is— and that's more than we had at Mission City.'_

'_You _died_ at Mission City_,' sent Ratchet back.

'_And what do you think we should do?'_ Optimus asked him after a minute, when Jazz didn't say something smart in return—for once.

'_I… Don't know,'_ he said, his text 'voice' tinged heavily with worry, concern and tension.

'_Acceptable. Ironhide?'_

'…_I don't trust anything about any of this, but we can beat the slag out of any 'Con that tries anything. I say we do it.'_

"Ratchet, can you manage another full scan? And answer me honestly. This isn't the time for bravado, or even wishful thinking," said Optimus, switching to spoken conversation.

"Yes," said Ratchet. "But it's unlikely I could do a third, and I'll need a few minutes recovery time, at least. It's hard to process all the data—it's crippling for several minutes and slows other systems down even once that's worn off."

Optimus nodded. "Jazz, send a copy of these events to Bumblebee on the securest line you have. Prowl, would you get the Decepticons to approach us? From one direction, preferably." There was a slight hint of dark humor to his last sentence.

"On it!" said Jazz.

"Yes, sir," said Prowl stiffly.

Within a few seconds there was the shock of close-by signal beacons being turned abruptly on. The group flinched as a whole at the sharp, sudden feeling of a blazing beacon—even with factions blocked—suddenly registering, and then again, less so, at the sudden blaring of security systems as still-running scans caught onto the signal and reacted with panic, sending alerts shrilling through the Autobots' processors.

There was a long, slow, almost painfully anticipative pause that seemed to stretch on and on, and on.

Finally, Optimus caught the faint gleam of optics approaching them from out in the empty desert and, slowly, three forms came into view, just barely there in visible light ranges, black outlines against darkest-gray sky.

"I'd appreciate it if you gave your word you're not going to kill us on sight," called a slightly amused-sounding voice from out of the darkness.

"Temporarily, of course," Jazz shot coolly back.

"Oooh, he's sharp," the voice replied in an aside he clearly meant for them to hear, voice slightly quieter for a second. "Seriously, though."

"You have our word that we won't attack you unless you attack us, for the duration of this meeting," replied Optimus evenly.

"Ironhide, that means you," Jazz added, somewhat helpfully and somewhat not. Optimus nodded in definite confirmation.

Ironhide merely growled, although there might have been a curse mixed up in the low mechanical rumble.

The small group began to approach again, slowly coming to stop maybe thirty feet way from the Autobots. All of them, excluding Prowl, were watching them sharply, glancing around behind themselves occasionally to see if any others were approaching them. Ratchet was no exception, although he was also berating Prowl quietly for being "so incredibly, _utterly_ stupid—I _told_ you to stay in the _med bay!_"

"Hey, there," said the one who had spoken the first time, the smallest of the trio. "I'm Sidetrack, co-leader of our little group, along with Prowl there. Nice to meet y'all."

"Can't say I'm sure I agree," said Jazz warily.

"Why would you, a Decepticon, willingly ally and cooperate with Autobots?" cut in Optimus bluntly, not bothering to deal with the formalities.

Sidetrack sobered—slightly. "It's hard," he said. "At first, I wouldn't have trusted any of the Autobots any further than I can throw Skywarp, here." He waved a hand to indicate the largest of the three, the one who had knocked Ratchet over in the first confrontation. He had to have been the one glimpsed on the military base: none of the other two were big enough to be an aircraft, and he was too big to be anything but—the slight hints of wings in his build made it obvious. "But hey, they've saved my bacon—"

"Damned human idioms," muttered Ironhide, somewhat savagely. "Even the slagging_Decepticons_ using them…"

"—and I've saved theirs. And whatever you can say about Autobots, you can't say that they've ever ritually sacrificed an entire species. Not under authorization, certainly. It's not like there's really any real Decepticon faction anymore, anyways—and Starscream doesn't count. Anyone who's following _him_ deserves whatever they end up getting."

"No, Autobots _aren't_ given to xenocide, are they?" said Jazz. The clear implication was that Decepticons were.

Ironhide wasn't that subtle. "I do seem to recall saving the native sentient species from total annihilation at the hands of 'Cons just recently," he ground out.

"As an acceptable loss in an attempt toreviveour_ species,_" added Sidetrack pointedly. "I can't say I agree with it, but that's besides the point; it wasn't pointless murder for murder's sake, and it wasn't twisted religious delusions."

"I don't know," Ironhide muttered. "'Twisted religious delusions' sounds pretty accurate to me…"

"So which one of you is going to get scanned?" cut in Ratchet pointedly. "Might as well get this done with."

"I am," said Sidetrack brightly. "I'm going to head over closer to you, now, okay? Again, I'd appreciate it if you held fire." Slowly, steadily, he stepped forwards.

The big one, Skywarp, tried to follow him, and the click of weapons prepping echoed quietly through the still, quiet desert night as several Autobots honed in on him immediately. "I'm not leaving my commander defenseless in the middle of enemy combatants," he said belligerently. "I'm not the brightest, but I'm not _stupid_."

"I don't want an obvious threat near our medic when he's in a weakened state," countered Optimus. "It would be bad enough if it was just us, but with the scan—"

The two groups glared at each other.

"I'll do it, then," said the third figure, voice casually insulting, stepping forward. "You can't object to another Autobot. And the sooner this is over the sooner we can get out of this Primus-damned desert."

The optics of the original Autobots all snapped to the third form. "Traitor," hissed Ironhide, voice heavy with disgust and distrust.

He bristled. "Stand down, Sunstreaker," said Sidetrack, sounding amused. He was echoed, just seconds later, by Prowl, before he continued speaking. "I mean, _all_ of us probably count as dirty turncoat scoundrels, at the minute."

"I don't need to stand here and be insulted by an ugly, trigger-happy idiot—"

"Hey, Ironhide!" broke in Jazz, sounding somewhat gleeful. "I knew he looked familiar! Isn't he the one who jumped you when we ran into these guys for the first time?"

"_Jazz,_" said Optimus firmly, then switched to their radio link. _This is out of hand enough as it is, I don't need you encouraging anyone. Keep it up and I'll have Ratchet block your Internet connection—meaning you won't be able read any more of those psychology books you're so excited about. Probably for the best._

"It was just an observation, sir," said Jazz happily, not bothering to keep their conversation private. "I mean, it's true, ain't it? And all the psych texts are to gather new strategies for psychological warfare. It's _research._"

"That's not the point—" said Optimus, sounding like he wanted to say something like 'I was afraid you were going to say that' instead.

"Just let me do the damned scan," snapped out Ratchet.

"But Skywarp wants somebody to watch over my poor defenseless body," said Sidetrack, still with that out-of-place humor. "That's what we were arguing about in the first place."

"So have Prowl do it," said Ratchet, voice heavy with over-exaggerated false patience.

There were a few minutes of sheepish silence.

"_I_ should have thought of that," said Sidetrack.

"Knowing you, that means you did and just wanted to see everyone argue," said Prowl, voice slightly, just _slightly, _irritated.

"Damn, he's on to me—"

Ratchet's engine revved loudly.

"Oooh, _scary_," smirked Skywarp.

Ratchet bristled. Sure, he hadn't been designed with fighting in mind—that was obvious enough, what with his build—but he wasn't _helpless._ "Slag this, can I have sand in lubricant lines instead?" he muttered bitterly to himself. He'd never thought the day would come when grit getting into an Autobot system—and him having to deal with the aftermath—would look like a _good_ thing.

"I'm waiting," said Prowl, voice dry enough that Ratchet honestly wasn't sure whether he was serious or not. Jazz snickered, and Ratchet shot him a_look_.

Things were damn complicated. Every constant there was seemed to have decided to take a vacation—Jazz was fine with it all, at least outwardly, of course, damn him.

And Optimus—he was having trouble with all this, but he couldn't ignore the possible threat to earth. He was in a bad position, forced to make questionable decisions no matter which option he chose. His hands were tied: there was no easy course of action. And it was the lives of his team—Ratchet himself, Ironhide and Jazz immediately, probably Bumblebee along with them—versus the entirety of humanity. Ratchet knew which decision he would make, in the long run, but that didn't make it any easier. Having done it once before already would only make it harder.

So he knew what Optimus would probably do, but himself? He didn't know. Part of him immediately and violently rejected the thought that Decepticons would_ever_ want to work to save another species from annihilation, and that true Autobots would ever stoop to working with 'Cons even in the most extreme cases, let alone once the immediate danger was over. Another part of him was more understanding. He'd done repairs to a Decepticon, once…

He'd been young and stupid at the time. Very young—just released from medical training and on his first battlefield. It hadn't been the beginning of the war, but it had been a lot closer to the start than it had been to the eventual end. He'd ended up trapped in the collapsed remains of a building, most of the structure still standing but all the exits blocked. There'd been a Decepticon trapped with him, a big flier: he'd been badly wounded. There had been pools of internal fluids on the floor, and the soldier had been in incredible pain, too much of it to even really notice Ratchet, at first. He'd been young; even younger than Ratchet had been back then.

He knew he shouldn't have, and he'd never told anyone. But he had still done it. As far as he knew, he'd never run into him again. He was almost definitely dead.

So yes, things were_complicated_. Ratchet was usually pretty easy going (unless one of the Autobots he was supposed to be keeping in working order did something stupid and got himself damaged _again_) but situations like this brought out the worst in his personality.

And now he had Decepticons pointing out the weak points to his design. Not that it really _was_ a weakness, in ordinary situations: Ratchet was built to be a medic, and although he wasn't the best at his job, it wasn't through any design flaw. It was the war that made it matter at all: everyone had needed to fight, and everybody had, regardless. Under ordinary circumstances…

"Okay, then, let's do this," said Sidetrack, stepping forward smoothly, any hints of hesitation carefully wiped away from his cool, calm demeanor and casual tones.

Ratchet stepped forward and searched, briefly, for an entrance to the other Cybertronian's systems. He didn't bother to warn the other mech before he initiated the connection.

The aftereffects were worse, this time. He lost a full five and a half minutes: managing the crashing waves of data took so much concentration that there was nothing left over for other functions.

"—atchet?" Optimus was saying. "Ratchet? Are you alright?"

"Fine, sir," he said, although he didn't try to get back to his feet.

"That was unnerving," said Sidetrack's voice from off to one side of him. "It—tickled. In the worst way imaginable."

"And the results?" continued Optimus.

"As far as I can tell, he's telling the truth, too. I can run another scan on the data once we're back at the base, but it's unlikely that it'll turn up anything that's been falsified. They'd have to have replaced large swathes of memory with fake ones without having him be aware of them doing it, which would be hard to do without leaving signs—and there aren't any. And then they've done a very complete job: all the senses, and in all the various databanks, and it's _cohesive_. Then little details, like these cuts—I've never seen any weapon of ours create something like this, and the wounds have been inflicted over a long time period, not all at once. The aliens, too—they're not like anything I've seen, and they don't seem to be any sort of fictional creature."

Optimus nodded slowly. "We can't ignore this," he said slowly. "The risk…"

"So what do we do with _this_?" asked Ironhide, gesturing slightly with one cannon at the two newcomers. He didn't break his staring contest with the Autobot of the trio; both were poised to attack the other, although only Ironhide had his cannons fully transformed.

"Well, it's not like we're going to go off willy-nilly attacking the species we're trying to save," said Sidetrack.

"_Right_," growled Ironhide, tone dripping sarcasm and disbelief.

"You're going to stand out, Skywarp," pointed out Prowl, tones logical. "Even once you're someplace your alt form's likely to be found, people _will_ notice the sudden appearance of a large aircraft, especially a military one."

Ratchet allowed himself a small smirk. Who was at a physical disadvantage _now_?

"Under more—normal circumstances, Prowl," Optimus said, sounding slightly stiff—a stress reaction, Ratchet knew. When he was more relaxed, he was considerably less formal—in these situations, of course. It was a learned habit: his natural tendency was the direct opposite, but that wasn't a good thing for someone in his position. Even a Prime needed diplomacy—and could suffer the consequences if they didn't, in certain circumstances. "I would, of course, invite your team back to our current base. I think you understand, though."

"Hey," said Sidetrack, objecting mildly. He was living up to his name. "Prowl's not the only one in charge, here." There was a long pause. Nobody said anything.

So Sidetrack continued. "Oh, fine. Since none of _y'all_ are coming up with it, how's this for a suggestion: we agree to be kept in your detainment cells, under whatever security measures you want it, for however long it takes. That should satisfy whatever paranoid ideas you have about how much of a risk we are, and gives us a place to stay."

"…You were waiting for us to come up with that?" said Jazz. It was almost—but not quite—a rhetorical question. He was asking something, it just wasn't what the question spelled out.

"Well, odds even are_someone_ would find it suspicious that I'm recommending you lock us up—you know, some sort of secret plan that requires that we get captured, regardless of the fact that if I _was_ going to try something like that, I sure as hell wouldn't be stupid enough to go about it so suspiciously—so I was hoping you would suggest_something_ along those lines, so I didn't have to bring it up. But it wasn't working."

Some irrational back corner of Ratchet's mind went 'Oh look, it's Jazz as a Decepticon.'

"_Now_ I'm suspicious," growled Ironhide.

"Well, I hardly would have said it if I was going to follow through with it," said Sidetrack, looking aggrieved.

"Unless you were planning on using that particular leap of logic to fool us into thinking that you weren't going to," said Jazz archly.

"Now's not the time, Jazz," said Optimus distractedly. There was a calculating minute of silence before he spoke again. "Alright. Your terms are acceptable." He sounded hesitant, doubtful, to Ratchet. He'd been working with Optimus for a long time, now.

The three Decepticons—no, the two Decepticons and the Autobot—relaxed visibly, which made Ironhide stiffen. "Hey, I don't want to be wandering around an alien planet trying to convince human governments that there's an alien threat coming and no, it's not us," explained Sidetrack casually.

"Let's just get home with everyone in one piece," said Optimus wearily. "Jazz, contact Bumblebee and let him know we're arriving."

_Wait,_ sent Jazz silently. _…Sam and Mikaela are there. And the Lennox family's due to arrive today or tomorrow._

Ironhide spat out an angry curse, verbally.

"What?" said Sidetrack.

"Nothin'," said Jazz coolly.

"We'll take the west entrance in," said Optimus.

"I'll tell Bumblebee," replied Jazz. _I'll also tell him to keep the humans somewhere else_ was clearly added onto the sentence, although he didn't actually say the words, either by private communications lines or otherwise.

"Good. Autobo—_everyone_, just transform, please."

Before Prowl could react, Ratchet interjected. "No. Not you, Prowl, absolutely not. Before you even _think_ about switching into your alt mode again you need a new one. Your current one is _too small._ Do you have any idea of the potential damage that can do? The strain, and the potential for pinched wires, or snapped gears, or… The list goes on. _No_."

The new Autobot, Sunstreaker, the one glowering at Ironhide, broke off the staring match to turn and glare at Ratchet. "Watch it," rumbled Skywarp, above him. "I won't have you mouthing off to my commanding officer, _Autobot_."

"In case you haven't noticed," snapped Ratchet, "That 'commanding officer' you're so worried about protecting is an Autobot as well. Making him _not your officer at all_. Unless you've gotten him confused with Sidetrack?"

"Cold day in hell, that," said Sidetrack, sounding amused. "But I do believe the Prime gave you an order, soldiers. Transform."

"So… You're _both_ in charge," said Jazz, sounding keenly interested.

"Eventually, it stopped making sense to continue to function as two separate, non-involved units, especially on the field," said Prowl stiffly. Jazz snickered.

"Knowing you and your control issues, I bet you fought _that_ particular decision tooth, nail and tire." Still, though, the gray Autobot transformed, followed by a reluctant Ironhide and, finally, Ratchet. The other team followed suit. Optimus went last, excluding Prowl, who remained untransformed, as per Ratchet's orders.

_I'll lead,_ Optimus broadcast to the group as a whole. _The jet—_

_Skywarp,_ broke in Sidetrack.

—_will have to fly. Here's the coordinates. _He sent them. _Then, in order behind me, Sidetrack, Jazz, Sunstreaker, Ironhide—_

He broke off as Jazz interrupted him. _You sure putting 'Hide behind Mr. Sunshine here is a good idea?_

Sunstreaker growled loudly.

_I don't have any other options. Ratchet and Prowl need to find a new alt form for Prowl. _Optimus switched to a private line with his lieutenant. _I don't want Prowl wandering off alone, and he's less of a potential threat than the others—more reliably on our side—so I'm risking our medic less. I want the Autobots spread out through the Decepticons—well, the newcomers—in case of attack, which means putting Ironhide either behind Sunstreaker or in front of Sunstreaker._

Jazz winced. _Okay, I see what you mean._

_And Ratchet and Prowl can go find a new alt form,_ finished Optimus, back to the public channel.

"Alright, then," said Sidetrack cheerily.

oOo

Ratchet and Prowl had caught up with them five miles from the base. By then they were well inside the expanse of empty desert the government had put aside for their use, surrounding the buildings they were using—and those were almost entirely underground. Funnily enough, Google Earth had turned out to be one of the biggest threats to their security. They had a government sanctioned link that let them remove their images from the program, but it was better that they just didn't show up in the first place: less chance of error.

They waited for a few seconds outside the west entrance for Skywarp to show back up and land—he had been circling above their heads, waiting—before they slipped inside the door of the only building above ground, a perfunctory structure built along warehouse lines, serving only as an entrance.

And then they headed down. Bumblebee was waiting for them, a little ways into the main corridor of the main floor, glaring pure venom at the newcomers, plus Prowl for good measure. Behind him was a pointedly closed door hiding their main communications array, and the sleeping Sam and Mikaela, although none of the newcomers knew that—hopefully.

_The Lennoxes?_ sent Ironhide, trying to keep from sounding worried, to Bumblebee.

_They're not here y—_ he began to reply, before the buzzer announcing that someone had arrived at the base sounded behind him, through the just-barely-cracked-open door.

_They're here_, he corrected, 'voice' half-despairing, but mostly frustrated.

"I'll go meet them, sir," growled Ironhide to Optimus as he stomped past him down the hall, muttering obscenities as he went.

"Timing," sighed Optimus, mostly to himself. "Why do we always have the worst of it?"

Ratchet frowned deeply at the sounds of a sudden burst of coughing coming through the door.

…_and something's wrong with Mikaela_, said Bumblebee. Ratchet took a leaf out of Ironhide's book and growled.

"I _told_ you we needed a medic!" he snapped. He was _annoyed_. He had sick humans, sick Autobots, confusing situations and that was just the start of things to deal with, and the Decepticon behind him, Skywarp, kept on bumping into him, just lightly enough that he couldn't complain that it was on purpose. He focused his generalized glare on Bumblebee. "And _you_. You've gone and irritated your vocal processor again, haven't you?" It was unusual, almost unheard of, for the Autobot to use his comm. link when he could speak out loud. "Damn it, I _told_ you to stop talking!"

Bumblebee chirped innocently. Ratchet glowered. "I'll see you in the med bay tomorrow morning. Prowl, _you_ get there immediately. With my luck, you'll have ripped something open again, what with that stupid, _stupid_ stunt you pulled."

The Decepticons and Autobot bristled. Ratchet ignored it, except to turn his focus on Skywarp, who was immediately behind him. "I'm sure you think it's_absolutely hilarious_ to keep on bumping into me. Keep it up and I'll lock you in Ironhide's room while he's in recharge. Since you seem to like 'jokes,' it'll be a fitting end."

"They let _him_ become a medic?" said Sunstreaker disbelievingly, to no one in particular.

"Uh… Sorry?" said Skywarp, looking shocked at the sheer vehemence Ratchet had managed, and maybe even a little cowed.

"Good," growled Ratchet through (figuratively) gritted teeth.

Jazz tried and failed to cover his laughter. Even Optimus was trying hard to keep from sounding as amused as he was.

"Alright, then," he said. "Jazz, Ratchet, would you escort our—guests—to the detainment cells. Wait for Ironhide—he's on guard duty. Bumblebee, keep on with your duties; I'll message Ironhide and tell him to drop the Lennoxes off with you."

"Lennoxes?" chirped Sidetrack. And Optimus covered a frown—he hadn't meant to let that slip out, and he hadn't wanted the Decepticons to be aware of the presence of humans on the base, for at least a little while longer. It wouldn't have been an easy secret to keep, anyway.

"This way, please," said Jazz, voice pointedly friendly, and the string of Autobots and Decepticons made their way down the hallway, leaving Optimus behind.

Leaving Optimus behind to decide what to tell the human government.

He sighed deeply again. He shouldn't feel this _old_, slag it.

--End Chapter 2--


	3. Inevitable Surprises

**Blurred Lines****  
Chapter Three: Inevitable Surprises**  
By Dreaming of Everything

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Transformers, or the song The Noose, which is by A Perfect Circle.

**Author's Notes**: Yet another chapter which involved drastic rewriting.

As in, I got seven pages in, then deleted it all and started over again. Sometimes I hate this story. The rest of the time, I love it to little itty-bitty pieces.

Thank you very much to my incredible beta, **mmouse15**!

oOoOoOo

It was past ten o'clock when Sam woke up, which was later than he'd planned to—ordinarily, he was all for sleeping in, but he didn't want to waste any of his time with Bee and Mikaela, and the rest of the Autobots. Yeah, if someone had told him that he'd end up placing conversational time as worthy of waking up early a year ago, he'd have told them they were crazy, but… Things had changed.

Damn was _that_ ever the truth.

He crawled out of bed and pulled on some clothes, feeling breakfast calling his name. (Well, he _was_ a growing boy, as his mom said on a regular basis.) First, though, he wanted to find Mikaela—

Wait. Her bedroom door was still closed. Was she still asleep?

"Mikaela?" Sam asked softly, knocking on the door. "Are you in there?"

No answer. "Mikaela?" he said again, a little louder. Still nothing.

Carefully, he cracked the door, peering inside, and then pulled it open a little more. "Mikaela?"

"Sam?" said Mikaela sleepily, voice hoarse, and then she broke off into a miserable-sounding cough.

Sam winced. "Are you okay?" he asked—she didn't _sound_ okay. Actually, she sounded kind of like she was steps away from death.

"I don't know..."

"I'm going to come in, okay?" Sam said stepping into the room and crossing over to her bed. Carefully, he smoothed her hair away from her forehead, then pressed his hand to the skin, trying to gauge her temperature.

"Your hand's cold," Mikaela said, curling into a tighter ball underneath her blankets.

"Oh man—Mikaela, I think you have a fever. Hang on—I'm going to go get a thermometer, okay?"

"Nngh," Mikaela said, turning over. "Everything hurts… I just wanna sleep, Sam."

"—And painkillers," he added, almost tip-toeing out of the room. Once the door was closed behind him again, he took off at a dead run.

oOo

Bumblebee went straight to Sam and Mikaela's rooms when he got off his shift.

After all, _somebody_ needed to tell them about what had happened: Optimus Prime and Ironhide were on guard duty, Ratchet was still working on Prowl, and Jazz was with the Lennoxes at Ironhide's insistence. That left him.

Sam wasn't there when he showed up. Mikaela was, but she appeared to be sleeping—he wasn't sure if he should wake her up. She'd been showing signs of developing illness the night before, and apparently sleep deprivation could worsen human diseases.

He could find his other charge first, he decided.

Bee hadn't even made it out of the room before Ratchet commed him. _Med bay. __**Now,**_ the message read.

Damn.

Before he could formulate an appropriately convincing reply, Ratchet sent another message. _Optimus just messaged to tell me that Sam's just entered the common room, and he's got an eye on him. Get your aft over here_—_you can't speak right now anyways. Remember?_

Something about Ratchet's tone implied that he better. It also insinuated that the medic was already short on patience, and dragging this out any longer than it needed to be would be a bad, bad thing.

_Fine_, he said shortly, changing directions and resisting the urge to stomp down the hallway.

oOo

Sam had stopped running by the time he reached the common area, but he was still walking at a fast clip.

He should probably call his mom. Judy would know what to do—she'd nursed Sam through a lot, at least. But other than aspirin, Sam himself had no idea what to do for someone with a cold. Or a flu—he was pretty sure 'flu' was the one he was looking for.

The Autobots probably wouldn't be a huge help with this one.

He was drawn up short as he entered the common area, largely by suddenly becoming under the focus of three 'bots he had never seen before.

One bore a disturbing resemblance to the spikier Decepticons, along with being tall. Really, really tall. Considerably taller than any of the Autobots Sam knew. One was yellow—probably even brighter than Bumblebee, Sam thought distractedly, and also tall, although in scale with the others—he was shorter than Optimus and Ironhide—and bored looking. The last was shorter, and slightly built.

"Hello," he said, feeling distinctly awkward.

"Sam," said Optimus Prime, before any of the newcomers could speak.

"Uh, morning, Optimus. What's going on?"

"We went to investigate possible Decepticon activity in the area of a military base, as you know: once there, we encountered these three—Sidetrack, Sunstreaker, and Skywarp. There was a brief altercation before Prowl arrived: he's co-leader of the team, along with Sidetrack."

"Okay," Sam said. There'd been an 'altercation?' What was that supposed to mean?

"Prowl and his unit were following a Decepticon ship, under orders, when they were attacked by a colonizing alien species in another galaxy. Both groups only barely managed to survive, and eventually the two groups—merged."

Sam could see what this was leading up to. He cast a disbelieving look in the direction of the newcomers, looking at the spiky one especially warily. Maybe he didn't just _look_ like a Decepticon…

"After receiving our transmission, the group headed towards earth, realizing that the invading aliens were also heading here. They are—incredibly dangerous. Cybertronian physiology isn't made for defending against them. Human bodies are virtually defenseless. While there are Decepticons in this group—Sidetrack and Skywarp—they've promised to fight against these aliens instead of continuing the Autobot-Decepticon war."

"Jesus," Sam muttered, eyes wide. What was _up_ with Earth—Did it have some kind of flashing interstellar sign, 'Bring Your Interplanetary Wars Here'?

And… Decepticons. Here. In the base.

"Uh—" He broke off to eye the possibly-Decepticons warily.

"_I'm_ an Autobot," said the yellow one flatly.

"_I'm_ not," said the big one, with a predatory grin.

Sam resisted the urge to back up a step. Optimus Prime looked distinctly angry, or at least protective, and also like he'd been about to say something, but had stopped himself.

The little one came made a move instead, getting right up in the big one's face—figuratively speaking, of course, by virtue of the height difference. "Skywarp," he said flatly. "Your questionable sense of humor is, well, questionable. And he is _human_, and I doubt he's had any good experiences with Decepticons. Save it. That goes for you, too, Sunstreaker—but not the Decepticon bit, I suppose, you just _act_ like one. Oh, don't bother denying it, even—" there was a shiver of Cybertronian "—agrees."

"Yessir," muttered Skywarp grumpily, but he subsided, adding a reluctant "Sorry," to Sam—although he guessed that he'd had some silent prompting for that gesture.

"Anyway," continued the little one—apparently he was in charge. "I'm Sidetrack, the Decepticon leader-half of our team. Prowl's the Autobot side. These are Sunstreaker and Skywarp."

"Uh, hi, I'm Sam," Sam said. "It's… Nice to meet you—" His mom had always told him that sometimes you needed to utilize a few handy white lies, although she probably hadn't included 'not getting squished by angry Decepticons' as a good reason "—but I think I'm going to go explain all this to Mikaela. I'll… See you later…"

Ignoring the still-present stares (although the yellow one—Sunstreaker—had turned away and was glaring moodily at Ironhide, who was propped in the corner and looked liable to commit murder at any moment) he turned and continued in the direction of the little human-kitchen area that had been put in—he was pretty sure there was a medkit there. There was one in all the rooms, basically—the base had been designed so every room could be defended during a siege, complete with accommodations for a few humans.

There was, and he had no trouble finding the thermometer. The painkillers were proving more difficult.

"Why the hell don't they have ibuprofen or something if they have room for _frosting_ for God's sake?" he whined to himself. "Seriously, painkillers—ahah!"

"Is something wrong?" Optimus asked over his shoulder, and he jumped and yelped, fumbling with the bottle of pills in his hand.

"Oh. Mikaela's sick," he said. God, it was only ten in the morning, and he already felt like far too much had happened. In a bad way.

He looked over just in time to catch the concerned look on Optimus' face. "It's probably just a cold," he said. "Or the flu, or something. I'm going to call my mom later." He paused for a minute, thinking, then grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. "Oh, hey, did the Lennoxes arrive last night?"

"Yes," said Optimus Prime, acknowledging the question with a nod. "They did. I believe they're currently with Jazz." Because Ironhide had refused to leave them unguarded, but he wasn't going to say that. It wasn't like he was going to be able to keep the presence of five or more humans—as of right now, that set number had the potential to increase at any time—a secret from their 'guests.' Maybe he could send the humans home…?

He wanted as little collateral damage as was possible. Humans were fragile, in comparison to Cybertronians—even more so than other types of organic life. (Not all of them of course, and much of that was circumstantial—organic life was so _specialized_—but humans were so delicate…)

And he didn't trust the Decepticons, or even the new Autobots, fully. The base's defenses had been fully raised: they would activate at even the slightest hint of something going wrong. He couldn't think of how they could have deceived a full scan, but he supposed that it _might_ be feasible—

He still needed to contact human governments, too. Damn.

oOo

"Hey, Mikaela?" Sam said softly, walking back into her room. He sat on the edge of her bed, rubbing softly at her back. "Mikaela? I brought you painkillers and I want to take your temperature, okay?"

"Okay," she said, voice tired, rolling over a little. Sam handed her the thermometer, trying to keep from staring at how her shirt was pulled down by her sticking the thing under her arm while he fumbled for two of the generic ibuprofen he'd found. "Here, I've got some water."

"Thank you," Mikaela said. Then, a moment later, after she'd swallowed, "I can't believe I'm sick."

"Yeah," Sam said, feeling irrationally guilty—it wasn't like any of this was his fault, really. "Um, Mikaela, there's something I need to tell you—"

oOo

Sarah had been briefed on the situation, first by Ironhide and then by Jazz, so she managed to hide her surprise—and, thankfully, her nerves and doubt—when she walked into the common area, wailing baby held in her arms.

She nodded—not friendly, but an acknowledgement—when she passed the newcomers. She gave the Autobots in the room she knew—Optimus and Ratchet—a friendlier, if still brief, greeting. Clearly, she had shown up with a particular purpose in mind.

"Oh, _drat_," she said to herself, pulling up short as she reached the ladder leading up to the human-sized section of the common area.

"What?" asked Optimus.

"I forgot the baby sling," admitted the woman, smiling—a little sheepishly—up at the 'bot. "And it's hard to climb ladders like this. To say the least." Sarah shifted her arms, where the still-screaming Annabelle was being held, to demonstrate.

"Here," said Optimus Prime, kneeling and setting down a hand, so she could reach it. "There's no need for you to go all the way back."

"Thank you," said Sarah, carefully putting the baby down in his hand. She'd gotten used to the mechs: Ironhide was a regular presence at their house, and she knew she could trust him with their daughter, despite the apparent difficulties of the size differences.

"Would you like to be lifted as well?" Optimus asked.

"Oh, no, thank you—heights make me a little nervous, so I want to use the ladders as much as possible, to get used to them." As she was speaking, Sarah had moved over to the ladder and started up it, true to her word.

He handed her the still-crying baby once she reached the top. "Is something wrong?" he asked—Ironhide had said that "Annie" was a good-tempered child, according to human sources, when he'd been pressed.

"I hope not," said Sarah, worriedly, "But I think she's just hungry. The microwave over by our rooms broke, so I couldn't heat her bottle over there. She was a little fussy last night, though…"

"I see," said Optimus, sending a brief message to Ratchet: _You were right. We need a human medic present on the base._ "Sarah, would you liked to meet some of the newcomers? Sunstreaker isn't here right now, but the others are."

Sarah hesitated, expression doubtful, thinking for a minute before she made up her mind. "Alright," she said, face determined.

Clearly, those newcomers had been listening in—something Sarah had almost gotten used to, after so much time with the Autobots: one of them, the smallest one, had stood and was slowly making his way towards them, weaving his way through the room. She wondered if she'd need to explain that humans didn't have comm. lines to use for private conversations again. There was a good chance that Ironhide would do it for her—that would be good.

Sarah, nervously watching the stranger approach, pausing a moment on his way over to talk with Optimus and Ratchet.

Her mind caught up in vague, undirected worry. She'd been rocking Annie, her little girl, in her arms, calming her a little, but the soothing movement slowed and then halted, redoubling the baby's cries.

Remembering what she'd come here to do, Sarah quickly bustled over to the microwave, taking out the bottle. Carefully, with the ease of practice, she stirred it to make sure the temperature was even, and then tested it against the soft skin on the inside of her wrist, to make sure it wasn't too hot. Finally, she put the top back on and settled into a near-by chair, offering Annie the rubber nipple. She latched on eagerly, sucking hungrily, and Sarah smiled down at her daughter.

When she looked back up, there were two Transformers watching her, Optimus Prime and one of the new ones—Sarah couldn't help it, she jumped a little. "Er, hello," she said, shifting a little so that Annabelle sat more comfortably.

"Hello," said the one she didn't know. Sarah was distinctly happy that Optimus was still there—for moral support, so to speak, but also because the other looked tiny next to him, which made him a little less intimidating. "I'm Sidetrack. Nice to meet you." Oddly, he had what sounded distinctly like a strong Southern accent.

"Sarah Lennox," she said. "And this is my daughter, Annabelle."

The stranger—Sidetrack—seemed fascinated, leaning in close (closer than Sarah really felt comfortable with) to get a better look. "A child," he said, like the idea was a foreign concept.

...Which, actually, it was, Sarah had been informed, earlier. The "youngest" Autobots got was the mental equivalent of a human in their late teens and early twenties. (The psychologist in her noted that it wasn't an exact translation, of course, which was something of a relief—a seventeen-year-old with the sort of firepower Autobots—and Decepticons—had was the stuff nightmares were made of. And that was just for example: an eight-year-old would probably be worse. Or a thirteen-year-old, God forbid.)

"Well, more an infant," Sarah said, forcing herself to relax her hold on her daughter. She was holding her defensively, she knew, which was almost definitely rude. Then, because it was a safe topic, she added "It's good—it looks like she was just hungry. I was worried she might be coming down with something…"

"Mikaela has influenza," Ratchet informed them from another table, voice raised for Sarah's sake. "Keep an eye on her."

"I'm pretty sure she's already had it," Sarah called back. "All three of us were sick, maybe three weeks ago, now—absolutely flat on our backs! But—Mikaela's sick? Poor girl—I hope she doesn't have what we did—it was awful."

oOo

"I've got to go," Ratchet said, standing abruptly. "Work to do—I've got so little time _now_, I don't know how I managed in the middle of the war."

"Good," said Optimus vaguely. "I'll talk to you later. In the meantime, I should probably go, too: there's a meeting scheduled. Prowl, Sidetrack—you're invited as well. Our human liaison from the executive branch would like to meet you."

"Great!" Sidetrack said brightly. "We need to get talking with these human governmental bodies. After all, we don't have the numbers to serve as the only line of defense against the invaders."

"It's a good opportunity," said Prowl blandly, standing.

"Good," Optimus repeated, heading for the door, the other two in his wake. He nodded at Ironhide and Sunstreaker—they were apparently ignoring each other—as the two groups passed each other in the hallway.

Sarah smiled as Ironhide as he walked in, still holding the baby. He frowned deeply, but she knew better than to take it personally.

"Hey, 'Hide. How are things going?"

"Hmph. You should go."

"Maybe, once Annie's done napping—she's having trouble sleeping, so I don't want to risk waking her up now she's finally drifted off."

"…Fine." Ironhide turned to glare at the two newcomers still left in the room: Sunstreaker and Skywarp. "Touch her and Bumblebee, who is in the comm. room, will make sure you are a smoking pile of scrap metal before you can so much as twitch."

Sarah blinked.

oOo

"Sarah!" Sam said, surprised, crawling up onto the table. "How are you? And Annie?"

Sarah smiled over at him. "Sam, it's great to see you again—it's been a while! I'm fine, and Annie too—it seems like she's getting bigger every day. How are you? I heard Mikaela's sick…"

"Yeah," Sam replied, suddenly worried again. "She's got a flu. I was just about to call my mom…"

"What's the symptoms?"

"Fever, coughing, headache and she keeps on saying she's not hungry. Those are the main ones."

"There's some soup in the freezer. Judy made it—and I can make some more if it's been eaten. Soup's one of the few things I _can_ cook—it's hard to mess up."

It didn't take long for him to get the soup heating: his mom had had the sense of mind to put it in serving-sized microwave-safe containers. He took a seat, not bothering to stand while he was waiting for it, and Sarah handed him Annabelle.

"You're good at this," she told him after a minute, looking at the smiling, burbling Annie he was bouncing on his knees. Sam smiled, a bit embarrassed, as he looked over, swapping grips so she was cradled in the crook of his arm. The baby clung to his sleeve until Sam gave her his thumb to hold onto.

"Our neighbors had a baby a while ago, so I started babysitting for them—it's how I got a lot of my car money—you know, for Bee. It definitely worked better than eBay, but it was also a lot more work. Rosa was a little monster."

Sarah laughed. "Well, Annie has her monstrous moments, too—there's no such thing as a truly angelic child, I think. She's not too bad, though. We were lucky."

Sam ticked Annabelle one more time, then handed her back to her mother: the microwave had beeped, and he didn't want the soup to get cold again while he was walking back to Mikaela's room.

"I'll see you later, then," he said. "And Will too, I guess."

"Yep," Sarah said, nodding. "He's got meetings right now, but he'll be free later. I think there's all kinds of trouble with the government right now because of the, uh, newcomers." She tipped her head in the direction of the far corner of the room, where two of them were huddled, one apparently talking quietly.

"Ouch," Sam said, wincing. They'd been bad enough about accepting the Autobots at all, _after_ they'd saved the world. Their distrust of Decepticons… _Sam_ was pretty confident he wasn't going to feel even remotely safe with them anytime soon, and he trusted the Autobots—the ones he knew, at least—with his life, and more.

"That was my reaction. Y'know, if it's physically possible for him, I bet Optimus has a headache."

Sam nodded. "I think we're just lucky that Keller's still involved. Things would be harder if Sector Seven had been fully incorporated and one of their agents put in charge of the Autobot branch." He frowned, thinking of Simmons again.

"Thank heaven for small virtues indeed," Sarah replied. "Would you like some help with that? That way, you can bring a few bottles of water along without needing to make a second trip. It's important for Mikaela to stay hydrated. Here's the soup lid—and let's hope it's watertight: these ladders are starting to get old."

"They were putting up a higher walkway around the room, one you could get onto by just stepping onto it off a table, but I think Ironhide accidentally ripped most of it down right before the grand opening," Sam said, searching through the crowded cupboard for water bottles—Mikaela usually liked chilled water, he knew, but she was feeling really cold, with the fever. He'd already gone searching for extra blankets.

Sarah goggled. "_Really?_" she said. Ironhide was big—huge, in fact—but he was usually pretty graceful.

"Well, he was in the middle of a base-wide training exercise with Bumblebee at the time. A kind of mock-battle thing."

Sarah giggled. "Okay, the story almost makes up for the inconvenience. But how are we going to get the soup, the water, ourselves and Annabelle down?"

"We can throw the water, but probably not the soup or the baby—Oh."

"Oh what?" Sarah asked, turning around to look at whatever Sam was staring at.

Oh.

There was one of the newcomers, much closer than he had been, watching them, face _almost_ blank, except for a glimmer of something unnerving around the eyes.

"Um, hi," Sam said, not even trying to sound like he wasn't deeply mistrustful. He _was_ trying to hide how scared-nervous he was, partially successfully.

Sarah only loosened her hold on her baby girl when she made a noise of complaint about the tightness of the grip, something that was almost but not quite a wail, the prelude to actual crying.

"Hi," rumbled the 'Con: his voice was low and deep, like Sam remembered the Decepticons at Mission City—and earlier—sounding. "You looked like you needed some help."

Sarah made a vaguely affirmative noise, all she was willing to commit to. She didn't trust him—Skywarp? She thought that was his name.

"Here," he said, laying one enormous hand on the table next to them. The two humans jumped as it clanged, and the surface beneath them shuddered. Hesitantly, Sarah perched the thing of soup on it, before backing away, with some subtlety. Sam followed suit, laying the water bottles down as well.

While Sarah was willing to trust Optimus Prime—and the other Autobots, as well—with her baby, she certainly wasn't going to trust any of the newcomers, Autobot or Decepticon. Even if there had only been Autobots that had shown up, with no possibility of them being traitors, she probably wouldn't trust them, either. Call her paranoid, but Annie was her baby girl.

"Here, I'll take the baby," Sam said, pointing over his shoulder at the ladder. Sarah shot him a look of pure gratitude: she really didn't want to try the ladder one-handed, with the other holding an infant. And, really, this all would have been so much simpler if she'd just thought to bring the baby sling.

The robot was watching the two of them heading down the ladder, far too closely for comfort—almost as if he was having some sort of internal debate. It was unnerving; Sam was deeply relieved when Bumblebee came skidding into the room, swiftly transforming to stand—it was enough to distract the Decepticon who'd been watching them and the new Autobot brooding in the corner.

Skywarp _had_ been having a mental debate with himself, actually, about whether messing around with them—not all that badly, even—for the laughs would be worth the chewing out from Sidetrack and Prowl. And the possibility of getting locked into the brig permanently. Or shot. And causing an inter-group multi-faction incident that could possibly spell the downfall of humanity and the destruction of earth.

Bumblebee headed straight for the corner, and Skywarp had enough sense to back away a little as the clearly fuming Autobot approached. Bee didn't acknowledge him in any way, turning his back to him—which sheltered the two humans on the ladder from his view.

"Here," Bumblebee said quietly, voice blurred with a fuzz of static, and Sam thankfully placed the baby on his hand, and then clambered on himself; Sarah waved away the help.

Once both humans were safely on the ground, he shifted to face Skywarp.

"You're lucky it wasn't Ironhide on comm. duty," he snarled, voice snapping equally with anger and pain, and then turned and slowly left, following the humans protectively.

Their group was almost out of the room before someone spoke again. It was Sam.

"—You know, if Ratchet asks me again, I'll have to tell him you were talking—"

Sarah laughed at the expression Bee pulled.

oOo

"So, how many of you are there?" Keller asked, growing ever more aware of his building headache. After the day he'd had, and with his luck so far, he was expecting one of the two new officers to give him a number like thirty. Possibly more. And made up of maybe seventy-five percent Decepticons.

"Including me and Prowl, sir, nine," said Sidetrack promptly. "_My_ original team, just the Decepticons, was comprised of 23 mechs, however. Roughly half didn't live past the first encounter."

Will only just managed to turn the beginnings of his startled exclamation into a cough. Keller caught the way Optimus Prime went suddenly still for a minute, but didn't realize it was a reaction to shock: he assumed it was just something like the receiving a message from another Autobot—the briefing he'd gotten hadn't included their eyes dimming or flickering, since it had been prepared largely by the remains of Sector Seven, who didn't know nearly as much as they thought they did—or bracing himself, figuratively speaking, for Keller's reaction to that number. Nine was just under double the number of the Autobots—the ones he could trust, at least. Bad odds.

Prowl frowned, just slightly.

"How many Decepticons?" Keller asked.

Prowl answered this question. "Four Autobots: myself, Sunstreaker and—" the last two names were in Cybertronian. Keller knew that the Transformers picked their own names—he'd asked—and guessed the ones without an earth name were still out in space somewhere. "And five Decepticons: Sidetrack, Skywarp and—" And again, he trailed off into a language he couldn't even fully _hear_. Presumably, it would mean something to the other Transformers there. For _him,_ it just made his headache worse.

"So, these… _other_ aliens," he said, ignoring his pounding head. There would be time to deal with it later. Maybe he could convince his aide to bring him aspirin along with his next cup of coffee. "Are ravaging species-supremacists driven by religious rage and lead by a small percentage of the population who are all ravingly crazy because of a recurrent genetic flaw."

"Well, not quite genetic—that's an Earth thing—but you get the idea," said Sidetrack earnestly. Keller didn't buy his act for a second. "They're also effectively impervious to Cybertronian-designed cannons at anything short of point-blank range, resistant to close-combat bladed weapons, extremely fast and numerous, and approximately the same height I am. And suicidal when they fight—they're not afraid of death, and most of them _want_ to die in service to their god. And they want to turn your planet into an 'energy farm' by hooking up humans and other large carbon-based organisms—probably including trees, they're going to love photosynthesis—into a siphon device that will slowly drain you of life."

There was a horrified silence.

"—And if they catch us, they'll probably try modifying the machine so it works on Cybertronian life forms. More to the point, though, I can assure you that all of us—including all us nasty Decepticon types—are devoted to defeating them, and ensuring that they never commit what they did on—" a brief burst of Cybertronian "—again."

oOo

The teleconference was over, the screen dark and Keller probably off to talk to the President, but the four Transformers and one human were still sitting in the room. It was oppressively quiet.

"What did you mean by _nine?_" William said finally.

Even Prowl looked distinctly sour. Jazz figured that still meant he was pissy as hell. "I thought it was understood that you would fully explain the situation," said the tactician stiffly. Oh yeah, Jazz thought. It been a _long_ time since he'd seen the 'bot that ticked off, even if you didn't count the all the time they'd been out of contact with each other.

"Must have slipped my mind," said Sidetrack cheerily. "I—"

"When," said Optimus Prime, interrupting, "Were you planning on telling us this?" His voice boomed through the empty room, briefly echoing off the metal walls.

"I was trying to figure how to bring it up," Sidetrack said. "Without complicating things. It's not like we've been welcomed with open arms. No, don't give me that look, I'm not that stupid—I wasn't expecting you to. Still, I'm trying to keep things friendly—Skywarp's under threat of a painful death at the hands of one of our medics if he doesn't keep his sense of humor in check, especially around the humans, and Sunstreaker's been told pretty much the same, although it's a different mech he's been threatened with, and it's his ego and violent tendencies he's supposed to be reigning in. And the xenophobia, that too."

There was a pause.

"Admittedly, I could have gone about it better," he said sheepishly

Huh, thought Jazz. Maybe he wasn't _totally_ shameless. Out loud, he asked "Any other little secrets you're keeping?"

"Just one for Ratchet," replied Sidetrack, voice cheery with an undertone of slightly wicked hilarity again.

"What?" asked Optimus, almost afraid to find out.

Prowl, Jazz noticed, was back to only mildly disapproving. He figured it couldn't be too bad, whatever it was. When Prowl caught his eye, noticing him watching him, Jazz smirked back. He always had been closer to catching on to him—not approving, but understanding—than almost anyone else, and it looked like that hadn't changed. It was good to have him back.

"We have two medics with us," said Sidetrack. "Technically. But in reality, one's an engineer with a side in basic repairs, and the other was partially trained by a self-trained field medic, which drives him _crazy_, but that's beside the point."

"Ratchet's going to blow a _gasket_," Jazz said, voice thick with glee. He could see where this was going.

"So they asked me to ask him to check us all over for uncaught mistakes and problems."

Jazz was overcome by sheer hilarity.

"You haven't changed at all," Prowl told him, deadpan.

oOo

"Now I have disgusting organic smudges all over me," Sunstreaker informed Sam.

"Huh?" Sam said intelligently. He was lying on his back in the center of Sunstreaker's palm, looking up at his face and the distance ceiling, set with dazzlingly bright lights. "Oh. Sorry 'bout that." He thought for a minute longer. "When I find out who left a puddle of water in the middle of the—"

He was interrupted by Sunstreaker twitching, which made the world lurch, stomach-sickeningly, around him. "You're _leaking,_" Sunstreaker announced, sounding somewhere between revolted, horrified and simply surprised. As if on cue, Sam's shoulder throbbed fiercely. The teen shifted to dab his fingers, gingerly, at the spot, and they came away red, he saw, as he held his hand up so he could see it, a black outline against the light.

"Oh. Blood," he said, distractedly. Maybe he'd cut himself on some part of Sunstreaker's hand, when the Autobot had caught him after he'd slipped.

The robot spat something in Cybertronian that Sam guessed was a curse, and the world spun into dizzying movement again. Scrambling into a sitting position, Sam saw that they were moving. Which wasn't comforting.

"What are you _doing?_" he demanded.

"Taking you to the med bay," said Sunstreaker flatly, not bothering to ask whether or not Sam wanted to go. "Prowl and Sidetrack have both ordered me to be careful with you squishy fleshlings, no matter how useless you are. And the med bay is in the same direction as the washracks, anyways."

_Okay, that makes sense, kind of,_ Sam thought. His shoulder ached, and he tried to shift a little so the plates and ridges that made up Sunstreaker's hand didn't pull so painfully at the cut and scraped flesh.

Surprisingly, the med bay was full, although nobody seemed to be injured. Jazz was grinning a slightly evil grin in one corner, watching Ratchet, who was yelling partly at Jazz for laughing, partly at Skywarp, who was on an exam table, and partly at Sidetrack, who was close to yelling as well, explaining why he refused to leave one of his soldiers alone, defenseless and in the hands of the enemy, even a marginal enemy at the moment, and Prowl was alternating between glaring disapprovingly at Jazz and trying to talk Sidetrack and Ratchet into a compromise.

"What _now?_" Ratchet snapped. Wordlessly, and with a pointed scow, Sunstreaker stuck out his hand, bringing Ratchet's attention in to focus fully on the human. "Oh, slag—what did you _do?_"

"Kept him from falling," spat Sunstreaker, bristling. Sidetrack made a move, as if he was about to speak, but didn't, instead watching the two interact with obvious interest. Jazz was only slightly subtler in his observations.

"Yeah," Sam added as he slid onto the table from Sunstreaker's hand.

"….Because apparently these things can't even walk right," the golden-yellow Autobot added, unable to leave well enough alone.

"I was running and there was a puddle on the ground, okay? And it was close to the edge of the table, and I lost my footing and went over the edge and he caught me."

"Fine," said Ratchet slowly. "_Thank you,_ Sunstreaker. Now get out of my med bay." Surprisingly, the mech complied without a word, although he glared nastily at Ratchet as he followed the medic's order, stopping once he was in the hallway, just outside the door—he also wasn't supposed to be unguarded. "That goes for the rest of you, too!" continued Ratchet.

"I'm not leaving Skywarp alone with you," protested Sidetrack immediately. "You're an Autobot, something I'm not going to hold against a body, anymore, but there's no guarantee that _you_ aren't going to hold someone's faction against them—"

"I'm a medic! I'm looking him over for his own good at _your_ request in the first place! He's—"

"Stop talking like I'm not right here," grunted Skywarp unhappily. He had a panel open on his side, revealing the inner mechanisms, Sam noticed.

"Fine. Let _Prowl_ stay—he's not going to go rooting through my drawers or ask me… _questions._" He glared significantly. "Or is Prowl not good enough for you, either? Since he's an _Autobot_ and everything. Do you need Megatron himself standing witness for you? —Slag it, Jazz, get out, I'm trying to work!"

"Prowl's fine," said Sidetrack cheerily, and he left after the fleeing Jazz, leaving behind Ratchet himself, Skywarp and Sam.

Ratchet eyed Sam speculatively. "Knew we needed a human medic," he said with a sigh. "But it could be worse. Bumblebee?"

There was an affirmative beep from a hidden speaker somewhere in the room. He must be on comm. room duty, Sam realized.

"Patch me through to Optimus, please, if he's not too busy with something important—"

After a second, Optimus Prime's voice echoed through the room. "Ratchet?" he asked, sounding slightly concerned.

"Did you talk to Keller about getting a doctor—or anyone with basic training in human physiology and medicine—assigned to the base?"

"Yes, I did—Why? …What's happened now?"

"Nothing serious."

"Good to hear." Optimus sounded almost amused at Ratchet's obvious displeasure, over his concern. The medic clearly wasn't happy with his new assignment.

"Yes, I think so too, but there's no guarantee that next time we'll be so lucky. Sam will just have a sore shoulder for a while. –Skywarp, if you even _think_ about moving, I will make sure you have something to occupy yourself with, preferably crippling agony. When I tell you to stay still, you do it! Sorry, Optimus, I need to go. Ratchet out."

Skywarp muttered something rude-sounding under his breath; Ratchet ignored him, moving over to where Sam was sitting, inspecting him silently. "Like I thought, no deep damage," he said. "It's all superficial—it will hurt some, though. Now, take off your shirt so I can bandage it."

Sam obeyed with a sigh, suddenly aware of how much _more_ unpleasant all the ladders around the base were going to become.

oOo

There was music playing in the common room when Ironhide entered it, holding the Lennoxes in his hands.

"What _is_ that?" he asked Ratchet sourly, ignoring the other 'bots and 'cons sitting in the room: all four of the newcomers were there.

"_But I'm more than just a little curious, how you're planning go about making your amends—_

"—_To the dead."_ (1)

Sarah, who'd been listening to the lyrics playing, bit back an entirely inappropriate laugh: she could guess why it had been chosen—probably by Bumblebee, who was the most musically-oriented of the Autobots, as far as she could tell, and not as open-minded about this as Jazz, the runner up, was being.

And, apparently, she was right. "Bumblebee's in the comm. room," Ratchet said, by way of explanation. "This is the sixth time we've heard this song. At least." He didn't sound at all amused.

"This is ridiculous," said William with a sigh, stepping off of Ironhide's hand and turning to give his wife his hand as she made her own way down, with Annie in her other arm. "But it's nice to see you again, Ratchet—I only wish it had been under more relaxed circumstances." His last word was almost swallowed by the sound of Ironhide loudly collapsing onto a chair at the same table.

"Don't we all," said Ratchet dryly. "I spent the afternoon fixing amateur mistakes made by incompetent medics on unwilling patients—and I have another two to go. With more arriving."

"How'd that go?" Sarah asked.

"Slowly."

"_More_ humans?" asked a voice, loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room, from the other table, the one three of the four newcomers were sitting at—Skywarp was seated at the far end of the table Ratchet was at, for some unknown reason.

"Yes, more humans," said Sidetrack, although he kept his tone quieter. "Remember, Sunstreaker, play nice." Sunstreaker scowled and returned to starting moodily at the patch of tabletop in front of him. "Now, I'm going to go say hi—I didn't really get a chance to talk to either of them, earlier. Anyone else coming?"

Prowl stood with him. "You need someone to keep you in line." His face was largely blank, but Sidetrack thought he caught the faintest glimmer of humor in his expression, and smirked.

Will looked up at the two forms approaching, one a little shorter and much slighter than the other.

"Hey, there—how y'all doing?"

"Well, thank you," said Sarah smoothly, not revealing her slight burst of nerves. "It's Sidetrack, right? And Prowl."

Will shot her a slightly surprised look. "I hadn't realized you'd been chatting with them—I had the meeting, and the two were both there—"

Sarah shot him a slightly smug smile. "It's in the mother's manual."

Prowl looked confused, but Sidetrack laughed briefly.

"And the other two?" Will asked—he hadn't met them.

"The big one's Skywarp," offered Sarah. "We've met. I think the other one was sulking, though."

"I do not _sulk!_" hissed Sunstreaker vehemently, incensed. Apparently, he'd been paying more attention to the conversation than appearances implied, Sarah thought, amused, despite the uncaring front he was trying to put across.

"I don't know, sounds accurate to me," Sidetrack snickered. Prowl looked resigned. "Anyways, how'd you and 'Warp end up getting to know each other? Even just a little."

"Sam and I were having trouble getting things up and down the ladder in here, and he offered to help."

"_Really?_" Sidetrack sounded amazed. "And he didn't pretend he was about to drop you, or anything like that?"

Sarah paled considerably. "Um, no," she said, carefully. "To start with, he wasn't carrying either of _us_. Um. Is he _likely_ to do something like that?" If the situation had been any different, the matching expressions of over-protective rage on Will and Ironhide's faces would have been priceless.

"No," said Prowl swiftly, before Ironhide could repeat his silent command to _'explain himself,_ now_,'_ out loud.

"At least, ideally," Sidetrack added in. "Skywarp—well, his sense of humor is, um," he paused. "Interesting?"

"I think I get the idea." Sarah did not look happy.

"Why do people keep on talking about me like I'm not here?"

"Whoa! Skywarp! Didn't see you there," shot back Sidetrack, with a quick dimming of one optic that appeared to be his approximation of a wink. Ironhide snorted with disgust, forcing Sarah to hide what would have been yet another inappropriate—and possibly slightly hysterical—giggle, considering the situation.

"I see," said Will, somewhat cryptically. Sarah assumed he was talking about Skywarp's sense of humor. "Actually, Prowl, Sidetrack, I should have done this earlier, but if either of you—or any others from your team—have any questions, feel free to direct them to me. As the liaison from the American government to the Autobots, it's part of my duties." His voice was non-committed and polite.

"Well, there's things _I_ should have mentioned earlier, so it's hardly an issue that it took you a few meetings to get that out," Sidetrack said lightly.

"Cute reference," said Sarah, voice fairly waspish.

"I'm cut to the quick—"

Prowl overrode Sidetrack's retort. "I'd like to apologize to you on behalf of the rest of the team, for neglecting to mention the other members. I'm sure this has been—_difficult_ for you—"

"I really wasn't thinking," Sidetrack said again, sounding rueful.

"Clearly," Prowl said, voice distinctly chilly.

"You mean you _hadn't told them_ about the others?" said Sunstreaker, voice somehow managing to be derisive even through the stark disbelief to his tone. The mech deigned to turn around in his chair—actually one of the variously-sized stools that made up most of the Autobot-sized seating in the base—to better join in the conversation.

"Well, that was a stupid idea," said Skywarp flatly.

"And you know it's bad when it's _Skywarp_ saying that."

"Hey!"

"Oh, Sunstreaker, you always have to get your two cents in, don't you?"

Sarah sighed. "I can't believe there's five more of them showing up here." She paused. "I'm going to be horrible with all the new names."

"You're doing pretty well so far!" said Sidetrack happily, apparently trying to project an attitude of good-natured innocence. There was still an amused undertone to the words, and a slightly wicked glint to his eyes—but then again, Sarah already had him marked as someone with a weird sense of humor.

"It'll be a fuller base than it usually is," Will added. "With my unit arriving soon, and Maggie and Glen—and we'll be getting recruits soon, although I don't think even the US government is cruel enough to assign fresh meat to us during the holidays."

"Busy time for you, then," Sarah said cheerfully, poking her husband in the side. "You're finally meeting the rest of my family, too—let's hope you're better with names than I am."

"And a medic," Ratchet said firmly. "We need one, and apparently we're getting one—Keller's agreed to see it through."

"Good," Sarah said firmly. "Oh! That reminds me—Will, Bobbie is arriving tonight, right?"

"Who?" asked Sidetrack blithely. Prowl shot him another disapproving look.

Will was also confused. "Yeah, but—"

"Great! Could you call him and ask him if he'd pick up a few things for us?"

"What do we need?" He was honestly baffled.

"Well, because Mikaela's sick—cough drops, cough syrup, mild painkillers, a chicken and fresh garlic, gingerale and an extra thermometer."

"Why the extra?" asked Sidetrack.

Sarah replied promptly. "One for out here, one for her room. Oh, some tea bags, and juice—we need those too. Mikaela needs to stay hydrated."

Ratchet nodded his approval. "If Epps isn't able to make the trip, I could take someone tomorrow."

"Thank you," Sarah said, smiling.

"It's my duty to concern myself with the health of everyone here," Ratchet said dismissively. "That being true, Ironhide, can you take over guard duty for me? I need to look over the results from a few tests I ran earlier, and check in on Bumblebee's voice." There was a rude-sounding beep from the speakers in response. Several people laughed.

"Fine," Ironhide muttered, glaring at Sunstreaker—who was glaring back—again.

Ratchet stood, readying himself to leave. Skywarp followed suit.

"What are _you_ doing?" Ironhide demanded, standing as well. He was still significantly shorter than the Decepticon.

"I'm tired of just sitting in here," the Decepticon rumbled.

"So you want to go with me. …_No_. Sit down, you're a threat, and I have _work_ to do."

Surprisingly, the hulking mech followed the orders.

Sidetrack was clearly just as startled as everyone else—or at least pretending to be—and impressed. "Whoa—never thought I'd see the big guy do _that_. He's hardly that biddable for me, or Prowl—he must really like you or something, Ratchet."

"Shut _up,_ Sidetrack."

"I'm going. _Some_ of us have actual work to do…"

"Oh, Skywarp, that's not a nice thing to say to your commanding officer, is it? Catch you later, Ratchet."

Prowl's voice was bland as he added in his own two cents. "I suppose disrespect is what you get for not acting like an officer. People are bound to forget."

"Ouch, Prowl, that's harsh—"

"I don't remember and Optimus and Jazz ever being like that," Will said lightly, watching the two bicker.

"I'd hope not," grumped Ironhide.

"Oh, dang, I guess that kills my rep—beaten by Autobots," said Sidetrack sadly, turning away from his largely one-sided argument with Prowl to face the two. "There goes my hopes and dreams."

"_I'm_ an Autobot," said Sunstreaker significantly.

"That's my point really—"

"So am I." Prowl didn't give an inch.

"Fine, gang up on me—"

"Actually, Sidetrack kind of reminds me of Jazz, at least superficially—but Jazz and Optimus Prime have a definite commander-subordinate delineation to their relationship—which makes sense, since that's what they _are_, even if Jazz is the highest-ranked officer in the Autobots, other than Optimus himself," Sarah noted.

"Yeah, that's a difference—"

"There isn't a wide schematic for our ranking system," said Prowl stiffly. "Clearly. We have no equivalent to any position higher than a singular unit, let alone something like Prime. Within our group, I share my duties completely with Sidetrack. We're evenly ranked. The others—the other seven members of the team—are all evenly ranked as well, more or less, although we make allowances in situations where one or another is at an advantage, such as medical emergencies and the medical staff, or Skywarp when it comes to flight. We recognize areas of specialty."

"I'm curious," Sarah said, doing a good job of masking the nervousness of her voice. "Your team—it really functions totally outside of faction lines? I'm willing to believe that desperate times actually do call for desperate measures, but that seems like a lot of, well, prejudice to work through."

"We're very close to faction being irrelevant, yes," Sidetrack responded, uncharacteristically serious. "Probably not as close as we'd like to think we are, but still very close. –You probably won't get the chance to get a full and accurate sense of our team dynamic, because my personal guess is that, rather than the Autobots on the team starting to re-identify as Autobots, and the Decepticons as Decepticons, now that we're back in more normal society, we're more likely to cling even more tightly to the bonds we've wrought _within_ the team. I hope so, certainly—with the alien threat, we need every advantage we can get, and a reliable team dynamic is _definitely_ an advantage."

"_In_-ter-rest-ing," Sarah said, drawing out the word. "How close are your team members to each other?"

"I've got work to do, too," Will said, cutting in. "I'm going to leave you two to the sociology and get to it. Love you, sweetheart—we can talk later, okay?"

"You, too—and plan on it." They shared a quick kiss and then Will left, walking swiftly towards the exit. Sarah watched him go for a few seconds before turning back to the waiting Sidetrack.

"It depends, clearly. Among the Decepticons, there are three with a 'close' bond—have you had that explained to you?"

"Partly, at least. A… Connection that's partly recognition of emotion and partially psychic, right? One that can have sexual or simply familial overtones to it, to apply our society's values—"

"That's it. Three with a close bond—that goes back a long time, long before I even knew who they were—and another two with a close bond among the Autobots, again something that predates the post-disaster combined state we have. All nine of us have a loose bond—"

"Just a recognition of closeness, usually something humans would consider a family dynamic, or a very close friendship—right?"

"Again, that's it, in essence at least. All of us have that. Within the team, and outside of the close bonds, there are greater or lesser levels of friendship. And—it's getting difficult from here, because I don't have names that work for you for most of the team, _clearly_. Prowl's got a Decepticon who hero-worships him. The two medics are pretty friendly, even if they don't usually seem like it. …There's only Sunshine over there and one of the Decepticons, who really count as loners, the—the outsiders of the group, and that's mostly to do with personality and less to do with faction.

"I have—" said Sunstreaker. The rest of his sentence was in Cybertronian.

"Well, yes, but close bonds don't really count in proving you're part of the group." There was what sounding like another burst of mechani-electrical babble to Sarah. "—has one too, and _he's_ socially isolated. Possibly on purpose."

"What happened in those caves that let you all click so well?" Sarah asked finally. She'd majored in sociology, and it had remained a passion of hers, even while she'd been out of work. This was proving almost rivetingly fascinating.

"We were positive we were going to die," said Sidetrack cheerily.

"That can count for a lot," Prowl added, monotone.

"And it was _boring_." That was Skywarp.

"And slagging the 'Cons would have gotten us trapped and killed."

"Oh, like you could have taken us on—"

"We would've wiped the floor with—"

"Leave it," said Sidetrack, voice firm even over the ever-present undertone of amusement.

"Fine. But _we_ had fliers."

"You were _underground,_ bitbrain—"

"_Leave_ it." This time Prowl spoke, and his voice left no room for argument.

"He'll be nicer once his better half gets here," Sidetrack said to Sarah, gesturing at Sunstreaker. His tone implied he was confiding something to her.

Sarah laughed, despite the death-glare Sunstreaker himself shot her, and one Ironhide gave to Sunstreaker, and then Sidetrack. Really, it was hard not to.

oOo

Sam had finally managed to coax Mikaela out of bed, but only because he'd finally gotten a hold of his mom, who'd recommended a way to help with congestion. Also, Sarah had told him that Epps would be arriving, hopefully with things like cough drops and syrup, and gingerale. Mikaela still wasn't eating, and she was still running a fever. Not that he'd expected her sickness to magically clear up or anything—Ratchet had told him what to expect of a flu, after all. Apparently the nausea was fairly unusual, although not unheard of. The rest was textbook.

Mikaela's one allowance to going out in public had been putting on sweatpants instead of pajama pants.

She still felt like she was freezing cold, because of the fever; Bee was giving them a lift to the common room, in car form, and he had his heater going full blast. Sam, in only a long-sleeved T-shirt, was uncomfortably warm, but his girlfriend was shivering off and on, even with the polar fleece jacket, two shirts, slippers and over-sized fuzzy socks.

"How are you doing?" Sam asked her, reaching out to take hold of her hand.

"Tired," she muttered. "Do you have tissues?"

"Not on me, no."

"Damn…"

Sorry, Mikaela. …Are you hungry at all? I think there's more soup, or I could get you toast, or a fried egg, something like that."

"…Rice?"

"You'd like some rice? I don't know if we have any—and, uh, I'll have to ask someone how to cook it—but if I can, I'll get some for you."

"Mmm. Thank-you."

"You're welcome—I want you to feel better soon."

"Me too—" Mikaela broke off into another fit of coughing. Sam rubbed her back soothingly. After a minute, he turned his questioning to Bumblebee.

"And how was your day, Bee?"

There was a moody silence before even moodier music—something classical, Sam thought distractedly—started playing, briefly. That switched to a clip of someone—possibly another singer—screaming "Shut up!" and then another song clip: "Accident—and emergency! Accident! And emergency—"

"Not good, then?"

Mikaela managed a weak, hoarse giggle.

"Let me guess: Ratchet found out you were talking earlier when you weren't supposed to be—"

There was a _ding!_ that Sam took to mean he was correct.

"—there are still Decepticons and possibly-traitorous Autobots hanging around—"

_Ding!_

"—and Mikaela's sick."

_Ding!_

"Well, sounds kind of like my day—only it had more Decepticons in it, since you spent so much time in the comm. room, and les Ratchet. Less _angry_ Ratchet, at least. And more getting hurt. You heard about that, right?"

Bee's engine raced angrily, for a short moment. Silence fell.

"Hey, we're here—come on, Mikaela, let's try this."

The room was completely empty of Decepticons, possibly-traitorous-Autobots, Autobots and humans. Sam was kind of relieved, and assumed Bumblebee had timed it like that on purpose. He figured the newcomers were all down in the holding cells again—it was another night, after all, and the Autobots tried to stick to a heliocentric timetable for the sake of the humans they dealt with.

It was going to take a while for the hot water they needed to boil, but, for Sam, it was nice to just spend some quiet time with his girlfriend and his best friend. Mikaela was sick and nobody was speaking, but it was—nice, yeah.

A little bit of peace in the chaos his life had become, starting with the Autobots—although they were the _good_ kind of chaos—and ending, most recently, with the new arrivals, which he was considerably more ambivalent about. It was good to know that he could feel this… Peaceful, even with the imminent threat of the Decepticons _in the same building as him_, and the more removed, alien threat of the invaders.

oOo

Skywarp was watching, fascinated, as Ratchet played with the immature human—the _baby_.

It was a weird little thing, all pink and rounded and surprisingly loud. Kind of ugly, actually, even more so than most humans.

He was kind of surprised that he'd been allowed to follow Ratchet into the medbay—for now, at least—actually. Sunstreaker was there as well, but _he_ was being checked over, which was funny as slag. The weird Autobot medic had done nothing but bitch the entire time. Skywarp himself was sitting quietly and not messing around with anything (even though it would be kind of funny if he glued some of the tools to the bench…) to keep Ratchet's wrath focused on Sunstreaker and not on him.

It was kind of surprising, yeah. Weren't medics supposed to be all calm and supportive and shit like that? _This_ one wasn't. True, his unit's doctors weren't like that either, but they weren't _real_ medics.

…And he was kind of scary. For a mech with medical design and, presumably, somewhat limited fighting skills. He probably wasn't completely useless on a battlefield—he was still alive—but Skywarp was a _Seeker_. A _good_ one. There was no fucking way that Ratchet would _ever_ be capable of beating him in a fight.

But, yeah. Ratchet was weird. It was kind of interesting…

oOo

"Hey, Sarah?"

"Oh—hey, Sam! How're you doing?"

"Great—Actually, I wanted to ask you a question."

"Go for it!"

"What should I get Mikaela for Christmas?"

"…Leaving it a bit late, aren't you?"

Sam buried his head in his hands. "Oh, _you're_ no help."

oOo

"So what's Earth like?" asked Prowl.

"Huh?" said Jazz, looking up from the datapad he'd been pretending to read.

"Earth."

"It's—a planet? Lots of life forms, highly specialized… You can get this online, you know."

"Yes, Jazz," Prowl said, sounding slightly pained. "I do know that. I'm asking for your insight."

"—Well, now, that's different. What sort of insight? I mean—they have really cool music. But I don't think that's what you're looking for."

"You would be correct in that assumption. I—"

"Score! Clearly, I still know you like I know my tire treads—"

"Jazz, anyone with a partially functional processor could have figured that out."

"So, if _you're_ to be believed, that puts me out of the running—after all, how often did you end up loudly decrying me? …Well, not loudly, but more loudly than you usually are. Kind of. The point stands, though! You often said that I was clearly a non-functioning waste of scrap parts—"

"_Jazz._ I had forgotten that talking to you was like—like pulling teeth."

"Aww, cool, man! You're pickin' up the lingo."

"English is a highly idiomatic language, even by Earth standards, and it is only natural to reflect that in my usage of it. That is, however, _not the point_. Do you have anything useful for me?"

"Whoops—better watch that temper of yours. That almost sounded pissy!"

This time, Prowl remained disapprovingly silent, sitting stiffly upright within his cell.

"Fine—_insight,_ huh? Well… Not much, I guess. The humans are surprisingly resourceful—and that's _me_ saying that, Prowl. I ain't shitting around—I'm impressed, over all."

"Hm."

"Other than that… They're social creatures. Kinda threw me for a loop, at first. Weird, and always _touching_ each other. But it works for them—you can ask Bee about that stuff. …He _might_ actually talk to you, too. He might give you accurate information, even, 'cause you know me and you're not a 'Con. Maybe not, though."

There was a short silence, as Jazz mused. "Yeah, good music. They really pack a lot into their little lives—and other than that, they're mostly a lot like Cybertronians. I mean, not physically—but you probably figured that out. _Maybe,_ Mr. Literal. Hey, I should call you that all the time—"

"Jazz."

"_Fine_, I'll have to find a different nickname. I still might use it some of the time. Uh… Where was I? Right. Similarities.

"Some are good, some are bad… _Some_ are the human answer to Megatron. Over-all, they're… In the middle, right? More or less flawed, but not all one side or the other. Somewhere in the middle, when it comes to levels of flaws and virtues. But in the end, more virtues than flaws, on average—I mean, there are exceptions. And, occasionally, sociopaths—but I mean, we got those too, right?"

"Indeed," said Prowl, dryly. Jazz had the feeling that he was missing something, but he let it go.

"So, yeah. Humans are very human—and damn, their language sucks when it comes to talking about this shit. Stupid paleocentric ideologies being reflected in their methods of communication—"

"Anything else?"

"There's a lot of 'em. I mean, the numbers are hard enough—but even that's not getting the scale! It's a _lot_ of sentient beings, Prowl, let me tell you."

"Yes, that is different. …It makes things much harder for us."

"Isn't that always the case? There's always _something_ fucking things up, Prowl, y'should know that by now."

"Yes, but— But it's not always putting rational beings at risk."

"We'll do what we can and it'll work out. Hey, beating impossible odds is what I'm best at!"

oOo

(1) The Noose, by A Perfect Circle. Yes, it fits the situation perfectly.


End file.
